


Acceleration Waltz

by Twigo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Drama, M/M, NYC, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 238,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twigo/pseuds/Twigo
Summary: AU. 1950s, America. NYC. Anti-German sentiment is alive and well, and for most young people, destiny is already decided. But one American and one German may stray from their intended paths, and perceptions are always subject to change. America x Germany
Relationships: America/Germany (Hetalia), Canada/Female North Italy (Hetalia), South Italy/Female England (Hetalia)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 64





	1. Emperor Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授翻】快速圆舞曲](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434494) by [dort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dort/pseuds/dort)



> Warnings! : AU. Human characters. Set in 1950s New York City, violence, language, Teutophobia, homophobia, abusive father/son relationship, mentions of war, suicide, mentions of Nazis, major depression, racism, other somewhat questionable content, and bad things happen to good dogs.
> 
> Pairings! : America x Germany, some barely hinted PruSpa. Some Canada x Fem!Italy and Romano x Fem!England later on.
> 
> Russian translation by Oksana here : https://ficbook.net/readfic/9658725

**ACCELERATION WALTZ**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Emperor Waltz**

Alfred had only been ten years old when the fires raging over Europe had finally calmed.

The war ended in '45, but it hadn't been settled right off. Another year, another long wait, and he remembered clearly the day that his father, after five long years of maddening not knowing and loneliness, had walked back through the door.

He would never forget the feeling.

A dark, stormy night in the summer of '46, and his father had stood there in the door frame, tall and dark and barely standing straight, unshaven and covered in old scars. His uniform had been well-worn and dirty, and when Alfred had rushed forward and embraced him around the waist, he took in his aroma; gunpowder and beer.

A long silence.

His father had pressed a heavy hand down onto his head, muttering something incomprehensible, and Alfred's heart had soared. Hadn't ever felt anything like that, not ever, not like that exhilaration. And when his father had staggered forward and collapsed into his chair, Alfred had burst into tears and tried to crawl in his lap. A sharp, impatient cuff to the side of his head had deterred him from doing so, and his father had only grunted, "Stop cryin'," before passing out in exhaustion.

Alfred, undaunted by the blow, tidied up the house and tried his best to make dinner, and the smile on his face had never once waned.

That was the best night of his life.

Even if his father had been too dazed and tired and _strange_ to respond to Alfred's attempts at affection. A little out of it. A little off. It was alright, and beyond understandable. No one ever came back from war quite the same.

His mother had died long ago, and even though he had spent the war years under the care of his maternal uncle, he had missed his father more than anything else. Even if his uncle was kinder and gentler, soft-spoken and calm, and let him get away with absolutely _anything_ , it just wasn't the same. His uncle was his uncle, but his father was his _father_.

He had never been prouder of anything in his life as he was of his father.

Once things had settled down over the next few days, Alfred got to know his father all over again. He had only been five when the old man had left, so there was only so much that he remembered, and the war-years had spent dreaming about him and telling everyone that his father was a hero.

Well, then. Time to actually _meet_ his father.

It didn't take long to get a feel of him.

Foul-mouthed, loud and crass, he got what he wanted, when he wanted, and anyone who stood in his way would face his wrath. He bullied, cursed, pushed, shoved, shouted. He showed no empathy, or sympathy. Hard, and masculine in every sense. The women fought for him. He knew no shame, and his pride was overshadowed only by his narcissism.

Alfred was fascinated.

To a kid, a man like his father was very close to a real-life comic book hero.

Alfred sat up at night, schoolwork abandoned in the firelight, as he listened to his father regale his friends over his war victories and exploits. He spared no gory detail, not even about shooting German paratroopers who had already surrendered (he was proud of it!) and Alfred drank it in, knowing immediately that he wanted to be just _like_ him.

That man.

To be respected and honored. To know no fear. To be a war hero, blazing in glory on the fields of battle, driving back evil and repression.

An American hero.

He bragged to his friends at school about his brave father, and when he was fourteen, the school had suspended him for bringing one of his father's war trophies to school for show and tell: a bloody, mottled German soldier's helmet. The bullet hole in the back of it had made his teacher retch. Alfred hadn't understood what all the fuss was about, and apparently his father didn't, either; the next day, his father had raised holy hell, and had even gone so far as to punch the principal in the face. Alfred was overwhelmed with admiration, like always, even if he too had gone back to school with a black eye for 'causing so much goddamn trouble in the first place'.

He vaguely remembered from childhood that his father had always been something to awe and fear, but not in the same way. Before the war, his memories of his father were hardly more than gentle pats to his arm when he did something wrong, little more than the normal chastising of a father.

Before the war. Something had messed him up, yeah, but Alfred took it for what it was, because his father fascinated him.

Now his father's volatile temper knew no bounds, and his hatred for Germans had reached almost obsessive levels, and every spare breath was spent cursing them. Something in the war had flipped off the switch in his brain that dictated self-control, and sometimes Alfred would come into a room and find him spinning the barrel of his gun absently, as he stared off into space.

None of the other men had come back the same, so it wasn't his father's fault.

Anyway, this brash recklessness was nothing that Alfred was ashamed of, and he took his beatings proudly when they came. His father was his hero. His idol.

God.

Life was okay.

The years passed, step-mothers came and went, some days were better than others, and when Alfred was seventeen, something suddenly happened that had shaken his faith in his father, and himself.

Unexpected.

It had begun as a normal day, and he and his friends had been hanging around the block after school, as they so often did, when someone had started screaming. _Screaming_. He would never forget the sound as long as he lived; shrill and anguished and heartbroken, as though someone were beating a dog who did not understand why. The most godawful shrieking he'd ever heard in his life.

Too curious for his own good, Alfred had followed the source of the sound, even though his best friend ( _poor_ Matthew, he would later regret above all else) had begged them not to go. Couldn't really help it.

Good god, that _sound_.

He would have never shaken it from his head if he didn't find out what it was.

They jogged off, nosy, Alfred at the head of the pack, dodging corners and pushing through the crowd. When they reached the street at the end of the block, where most of the European community could be located, somewhere that Alfred _never_ went on a normal day, they found themselves frozen in place, and Alfred's stomach had twisted.

Shock, more than anything.

The house at the corner belonged to an elderly couple, German immigrants who had lived in the same place long before Alfred had even been born. The Schulzes. He and his friends often made a point of walking by their house, because old Mrs. Schulze would always slip them homemade marzipan bars if they showed her their good test scores. Hadn't ever met his own grandparents on either side, so she was comforting to him, in her own way. The old man usually just watched from the door and smiled.

And even though they were German, even though Alfred scarfed down the candy before his father could see it, they weren't _really_ German, were they? They were nice. Normal. Just nice old people, plain as could be. Never stood out in any way. They weren't really German. Couldn't be. Germans were easy to pick out, immediately obvious. His father had made that clear. That man could smell a German a mile away, or so he claimed. They weren't like that. Not the monsters that his father had told him stories about. They didn't wear swastikas on their arms, they didn't scream. They didn't have those cold, frightening eyes that his father had described.

Somewhere in his mind, Alfred was fully aware that, yeah, they were German, because otherwise he wouldn't have been sneaking about them in the first place. Still, though, easier to pretend they weren't, because then he didn't have to _think_ so damn much.

Not real Germans.

And yet there he had stood on that sunny day, as Mrs. Schulze screeched her agony to the skies on her front step, and down below on the sidewalk was her husband, being kicked and punched and stomped into a bloody, quivering mess. And above him, wild-eyed and shouting the foulest slurs he had ever heard, was his father.

Alfred had shaken his head to clear it, certain that his eyes were deceiving him. Couldn't have been _his_ father. Not his. Someone else's. When he looked again, he felt his heart hammer wildly in his chest as nausea jolted his stomach, and something hit him in the gut. Something that felt alarmingly like horror. Guilt.

It was his father, alright.

A moment of silent incomprehension. Couldn't really grasp it, even though he saw it plain as day.

His father.

Felt like the world had stopped, for a second. Blurry.

He remembered that beside of him, Matthew, gentle as he was, had lurched oddly, as though torn between running forward or staying put. Matthew hadn't wanted to come; shouldn't have had to see it at all. Matthew had wanted to stay put. A horrible look of helplessness, a terrible shadow on his face, but Matthew's bravery was short lived, and he whirled around on his heel, covering his mouth with his hand and shutting his eyes.

Alfred was too _horrified_ to look away. Stuck in place and staring.

That screaming. She wouldn't stop screaming. Too loud in his ears. The old man on the ground was begging and pleading and crying, but his father did not stop.

He didn't stop.

Why? Why wouldn't he _stop_? There were people everywhere! The entire street had been crowded, and passersby had averted their eyes as _his_ father beat a defenseless old man into the pavement with his boots. And for what? What had the hapless senior done to invoke such wrath? Had he been speaking German to his wife when his father had just happened to be passing? Had he mouthed back at being called a _Kraut_ or _Fritz_ or _Jerry_? Had he sent his father a look that hadn't been appreciated?

Or had he done nothing at all?

Alfred remembered looking around, dumbly, waiting for someone to intervene. _He_ couldn't. How could he? He could not disobey his father.

Someone help. That old man hadn't done anything to anyone.

But no one acted, and as he searched the street, he caught someone's gaze.

A pair of ice-blue eyes bored into his own, and he recognized another occupant of the European block; another German, he realized, with a stir of anxiety. A young man, barely older than himself, who rarely ventured outside and kept completely to himself. Alfred had seen him sometimes, though, walking around the park with his dog. They hadn't ever spoken, not once, though they had crossed paths many times. Didn't know his name, didn't know anything about him, and hadn't ever cared to.

He was peering out of his door from down the street, tall and wary and face completely guarded, his brow low in severity. Maybe fear. Looked anxious. Agitated. As if, like Matthew, he had wanted to come forward but had lost his nerve.

Alfred didn't miss the flit of emotion that ran through his eyes as they stared at each other:

Fear. Accusation. Hate.

Alfred had been recognized as well. Everyone knew Alfred's father. _Especially_ the Germans. In turn, they knew Alfred, too, and avoided him as much as they did the old man. Like father, like son, as they said.

They stared.

Alfred hadn't been able to stand that unwavering, contentious gaze for long, and bowed his head, as the old man's cries faded into whimpers, and then moans, and then nothing at all.

He felt sick.

Half an hour later, the police came, and escorted his father away. Mr. Schulze had been rushed to the hospital, where he would die that night, his wife at his side.

Nothing happened to his father. Not a damn thing. His sin went completely unpunished. No one _cared_. As the old man had slipped away in a hospital bed, _his_ old man had been sitting in a police station sharing beers with sergeants and laughing, as they neatly cleared him of all wrong doing.

Alfred had bolted home and stumbled through the front door, barely making it to the bathroom before he had vomited. He was aghast at what he had seen. His father had killed tens, hundreds even, of Germans in the war, and Alfred had always imagined it to be brave and heroic. The way his father had spoken about it, the way he had described it, it had sounded so spectacular.

So brave. Glorious. Those stupid old notions of victory and heroism.

There was nothing glorious about what he had just witnessed, nothing spectacular, nothing brave, and he could still hear the old woman's shrieks reverberating in his ears. That was never how he had envisioned death, never how he had imagined it would be. Never had known that it could seem so long, so drawn out, so painful. That it was so brutal.

Couldn't take the sight of it. Couldn't stand the sound of it. Couldn't stomach the _notion_ of it.

Death.

Felt stupid. He was shaken to his core, everything suddenly seemed so different, and he _realized,_ with a lurch of horror, that he had seen his _real_ father emerge for the first time. He had finally seen the very thing that he had so longed to become. Had finally really gotten to know the old man.

His hero.

Yeah, brave, alright. Had to be brave to beat a defenseless old man. Had to be brave to take on someone who could have been your father. Had to be brave to hit someone who couldn't even fight back.

As he had gripped the edge of the sink, staring at his pale, yellowish reflection in the mirror above, he couldn't help but shudder.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, it hadn't _mattered_ anymore. Hadn't mattered to him, none of it. No matter how many medals his father had won. No matter how many people called him a hero. No matter how many women fawned after him. No matter how many things he got away with. No matter how many men still saluted him. Didn't matter.

His hero.

Didn't matter.

He never wanted to see himself with that look of uncontrollable hatred upon his face. He never wanted to see himself stomping a life out of existence. Never wanted to see himself looking like _that_. Never wanted to see himself hurting someone else, for no reason at all. Didn't want that. He didn't, and he longed to say as much, but his will always bowed down in the presence of his intimidating father, and that night, when the elder had slung an arm around Alfred's shoulders and said, 'Guess what I did today?', Alfred could only avert his eyes and listen to the whole numbing story.

Couldn't gather the courage to open his mouth and ask, 'Why?' To ask, 'Did you feel good?' To ask, 'What did he do?'

To say, 'I feel _ashamed_.'

His chest ached.

So ashamed.

He didn't go to school for the rest of the week, feigning illness. Couldn't face anyone, not then. Couldn't see Matthew, couldn't look him in the eye after that, after Matthew had seen that. Too weak.

But, as it happened, his crisis had only been momentary; after a year or so, he had repressed the incident into the back of his mind. The wonderful thing of being young, the ability to repress. The ability to shove things aside. The ability to move forward yet. And, hell, after many months of fighting against his guilt, he had actually managed to convince himself that Mr. Schulze had been, after all, _just_ a German. Only a German. His father was still a pillar of the community. No one had even sent him a dirty look since then. Couldn't have been wrong, because his father hadn't been punished.

His _hero_.

Oh, god. Had to think it, had to, because facing the mirror and saying, 'My father is a murderer' was too hard. Hurt too much. Hurt his pride, his ego, his faith in everything, hurt his love for his father. Couldn't face it.

Instead, he forced himself into the belief that his father was still a man of honor. He _had_ to believe it, because if he couldn't, then there was nothing left for him to believe in. Fathers were supposed to be role models. Fathers did everything right. Men to be admired.

Whenever he felt a twinge of doubt, whenever his conscience tried to fight back, Alfred reminded himself that his father had been through so _much_ in the war. So many years. So many terrible things he'd seen. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't.

Time felt like it dragged.

Soon, he graduated school. His father had given him only an awkward slap on the shoulder for luck, and Alfred had tried damn hard to keep his eyes up. Hard, though, to stand on that stage with that man, after everyone knew what he had done. No one seemed to remember, though, and no one sent them a second glance.

Except for maybe Matthew.

Alfred found a job before long, as he saved aside money to one day go to college. In theory, at least. His self-control was about as good as his father's, sometimes, and he usually blew more than he saved.

Years.

When he turned twenty, he had all but forgotten his father's sin, as fervent as he had been in his suppression. Carrying on with his life, as normally as any young adult. He was tall and handsome, proud and intelligent. The girls flocked to him now, as much as they ever had his father, but he did not keep their fancies for long before he moved on to another. He was a little pompous, a little arrogant, but felt he had the right to be. Egotistical. Sure of himself and feeling as if he were a little better than those around him.

A typical American brat, and he would have it no other way.

He was generally good-natured, though, and happy. Didn't really want to cause any harm to anyone, more content to spend his time feeding his own arrogance and ego. Having a good time. And he _thought_ that he was too strong-willed to ever let anyone boss him around anymore, now that he was grown. Thought he had the strength to stand on his own. That he could speak up for himself.

And he could, absolutely, to _everyone_.

Everyone except the old man.

God help him...

When his father, seeing that he had become a strongly built adult, took him out around the block and inserted him into the middle of his frequent ethnic bullying, Alfred clamped his jaw shut and went with the tide. Couldn't do much else; even after all of those years, his father still seemed to have an uncanny power over him. Couldn't seem to escape it, no matter how hard he tried.

When the old man was looking at him, he foundered.

Did so many things, so many terrible things, just because his father told him to. He had, at his father's behest, ganged up and harassed a local German vendor. He had, at his father's urging, broken a shop window of a bakery. He had even, at his father's cajoling, physically forced that pale-haired German, the one that had locked eyes with him that day so long ago, to walk in the dirty gutter rather than on the sidewalk.

Didn't know why.

Wanted to refuse. Why couldn't he? What was it about the old man that kept him from refusing?

And when he had, at his father's command, spray-painted a swastika on the front of old Mrs. Schulze's door (oh, _god_ , how she had cried when she saw it), he had wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and never show his face in public again.

Matthew's look of disappointment hurt him more than anything else.

Coward.

He did everything that was expected of him, mechanically, without even raising his voice in protest.

He never said 'no'.

That was _his_ sin.


	2. Minute Waltz

**Chapter 2**

**Minute Waltz**

There were few things more appealing to an adolescent male than the smell of machinery and motor oil, and even though a fledgling mechanic's pay was hardly any better than that of a slaving waiter, the appealing feel of steel in Alfred's hands more than justified the near destitution.

Or maybe it was just the sense of masculinity that he enjoyed, and the girls' eyes that followed him when he walked down the street, covered in oil and sweat, tall and muscled.

Matthew called him a showboat, and maybe he was. Just a little. Ego would probably be his downfall one day, but he felt entitled to attention.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Matthew grumbled, stuck firmly to Alfred's side as they ambled down the street in the dead heat.

Alfred knew damn well was he was talking about; his habit of removing his sweaty shirt and throwing it over his shoulder, leaving only a flimsy white tank top to cover his chest, and puffing out proudly every time a girl passed. Typical showboating, alright. What he thrived on. Why he did it, he couldn't say. Just the way he was. Felt good when people looked at him for something pleasant. Needed reassurance, perhaps, in his own worth.

After that.

"I don't know what you mean," he drawled back, eyes lingering on a sauntering woman on the other side of the street, and he slowed to a crawl when she threw him a wink. Matthew's brow furrowed in annoyance, and he rolled his eyes and sped his pace, forcing Alfred to follow.

Damn.

Oh well. Plenty of fish in the sea, as his uncle liked to say. Plenty of people who would pay attention to him. Plenty of people to stoke his ego.

Plenty of people available to aide him in his constant repression.

Matthew was a notorious buzz-kill anyway, but even though he would never understand Matthew's odd behavior at times, Alfred still considered him his absolute best friend, and a source of endless (if not sometimes boring) wisdom. Of course, times with Matthew were not always frequent, and his father had always preferred for him to hang out with the other young men that walked the block.

Matthew was, after all, known to the neighborhood as just 'that Canuck'. The shy, boring, timid one who never got into trouble and never _caused_ trouble.

His father preferred men who reminded him of himself, and Matthew did not fit that bill. Being around Matthew was, for lack of another word, un-cool. Alfred was anything but, yet still sought out Matthew, because he loved that weird son of a bitch. To everyone else, Matthew was mostly there, it seemed, just for them to tease. Sometimes even Alfred, though he didn't mean it like the others did.

Alfred loved Matthew like a brother, through it all, and even though the other guys giggled at him, he stuck with him nonetheless. His father's chides were only halfhearted at the most, and as long as he was just hanging out with the Canuck and not those 'goddamn, loud-mouthed Italians', then everything was okay.

Even so, Matthew was always reluctant to enter his house, and Alfred could only imagine why. There was always some good reason why he had to 'wait outside', and, like clockwork...

"I'll wait outside," Matthew said, predictably, as they came up to the house, and he paused by the steps, crossing his arms over his chest and bracing his feet on the pavement.

Of course. In the back of his mind, Alfred knew damn well why Matthew hated going inside.

That awful screaming.

Nope. Repression.

Rolling his eyes, Alfred grabbed Matthew's arm and dragged him up the steps without mercy, because Matthew's discomfort was in some way pleasing to him. "Come on," he goaded, as he pulled, "You're not gonna sit out here and look like a damn _loser_. Besides, I gotta eat somethin' before we go out."

Matthew opened his mouth and began to sputter, "So eat somethin'!", but his soft voice was lost under Alfred's loud, obnoxious one, and with one mighty yank hapless Matthew was pulled up the stairs and through the threshold.

When the door was shut behind them, Alfred's father glanced up from the kitchen table where he sat, paper in hand. He saw Alfred first, and grumbled, "Where've you been, boy? You're never gonna get into a college if you keep runnin' those streets."

"I was at _work_ , dad," he shot back, and his father's brows lowered.

"Yeah, that's what you said yesterday."

"I worked yesterday _too_ , dad!" he cried in exasperation, as Matthew tried to slink by behind him and into the living room without drawing attention to himself, but he wasn't quite fast enough, and his father's eyes lit up when he saw him.

"Hey there, frostback!" he cried, a bit gleefully, and Matthew froze in place, turning to face the old man with a look of apprehension. "I guess you were workin' too, _eh_?"

"Yes, sir," Matthew grumbled, weakly, a faint flush of embarrassment on his cheeks at the jabs to his northern heritage. Alfred smiled easily, like he always did, and when his father was satisfied, the paper flew back up, and they fled into the living room, throwing themselves on the couch.

Another normal day. Teasing never hurt anyone.

As he turned on the television, Alfred heaved a contented sigh, and turned to Matthew, expectantly.

"So, where do you wanna go?" he asked, and Matthew merely shrugged a shoulder, lips pursed.

Moody already. Jeez.

Sparing himself only a 'hm', Alfred leaned back into the couch, hands behind his head, and wondered why Matthew always took his father's words so damn seriously. It was just friendly teasing, for Christ's sake. Like the kids in school hadn't picked on Matthew worse back in the day. Maybe it was just the loud tone of voice his father spoke in. Matthew's parents were as soft-spoken as he was, and he just wasn't used to being talked to in such a harsh manner. Hearing _his_ dad talk was, to Matthew, probably akin to being screeched at. Differences in upbringing, was all.

Eh. He would get over it one of these days, Alfred always convinced himself, although it had been years and Matthew never had. Besides, his father was mostly hot air.

Mostly.

"Alfred!" came a cry from the kitchen, and he grimaced.

" _What_?"

"Some girl came looking for you today."

"Who?"

"I don't know all their goddamn names," was the sharp response, and Alfred could hear him sigh. "I hate when you show all of them whores where we live. The neighbors talk. You know, I don't understand why you don't just marry that nice English girl that lives on the other side of town, the one you went to school with. She's always comin' round. She's a cutie."

"Dad!" Alfred balked, wrenching his head over his shoulder in horror. " _Alice_? You're kidding, right? She's crazy! She bought a bunch of books and tried to make a love potion, _dad_! And I almost _drank_ it!" He reached up and rubbed his throat, as the unwanted memory crept over him like the tide.

At his side, Matthew smirked; he _had_ been the one that had prevented the whole mess, after all. For all the good it had done. Alice just kept on tryin'. Persistent, certainly. She was pretty, sure, and maybe he would have gone for her if she weren't so kooky.

His father only grumbled some unintelligible response, and Alfred resumed his attention to the television with a roll of his eyes.

Silence.

Alfred flipped through the channels with an absent hand. Matthew starting shifting soon after. Uncomfortable.

A whisper.

"Can we go now, please?"

Matthew's quiet plea was barely audible, and Alfred shrugged a shoulder.

"If you want."

"I do."

Ten minutes and a sandwich later, they were out on the streets again, and they both heaved a sigh of relief. Matthew for reasons that Alfred did not quite comprehend, and _he_ just because the streets were where he was the most confident. He was not suffocated out here under his father's strict presence, even though he was not completely at liberty to do as he pleased.

Always someone to impress, it seemed. Always someone to showboat for.

The other boys he hung out with were always on the prowl, and if they saw him it was a sure thing that he would saddle up with them, and oh, how Matthew _hated_ them. All of them. And they hated Matthew.

Alfred knew why Matthew couldn't stand 'em; when Alfred was with them, he sometimes did things he wished he hadn't. Couldn't help it. When he was with them, it was easy to get into the swing of their minds.

And they always ran into each other, it seemed.

True to form, they had barely gone two blocks before someone was yelling at him.

"Hey! _Hey_! Jones! Why don't you come join us?"

Alfred looked over at the call, where, across the street, his other friends were attempting to wave him over.

Friends. That was an extremely strong word. They weren't _friends_ , exactly, so much as just 'those guys.' The same four guys. Always. Confident and brash and loud. Alfred's 'friends', if not his friends. More like partners in crime. He didn't _like_ them, not like he liked Matthew. But, in the end, they were cool. Matthew was not.

Appearances, before anything else.

"Jones, c'mon!"

Alfred smiled, despite himself, and took an automatic step forward, but a scoff at his side made him glance over, and Matthew's look of distaste stopped him dead in his tracks. That look. Alfred couldn't stand that look that Matthew was good at giving; the wounded puppy, as Alfred liked to call it. Before he could run off, damage control was necessary.

The wounded puppy needed to be coddled.

"Hey, listen, why don't you—"

Matthew would have none of it, not this time, and barked, "Alfred, don't go with them today."

A stern command.

...okay, maybe he was irritable puppy today.

"Hey," one of them jeered, loudly, "Come on! Ditch the iceback! Let's go find something exciting!"

Alfred loved Matthew like a brother. He always had.

And yet...

" _Alright_ ," he called back, excitedly, "Give me a sec!"

They were exciting. And Matthew was _not_.

Goddammit, Matthew. Wished he could try to understand a little. Wished he could figure out that Alfred only went with them because sometimes he needed that pack mentality to make him feel good about himself.

He turned back to Matthew, slapping him on the shoulder fondly, and he noticed the well-guarded hurt in Matthew's eyes, but took only minimal interest in his low brow and pursed lips. Matthew would get over it, as he always did.

"Listen," he began again, cheerily, "I'm gonna go, but... We can hang out all day tomorrow since I'm off, alright?"

A scoff.

"Sure," Matthew finally muttered back, and tucked his hands in his pockets, stalking off without another word or a glance behind. Alfred stared after him for a moment, and then darted across the street, dodging traffic and joining up with the other boys eagerly.

When he was with Matthew, he was happy. But when he was with the others...

He felt _powerful_. And there was _no_ better feeling than that.

Even though Matthew was his one true friend, even though Matthew was probably the only one that really cared for him, he couldn't help but laugh when the others would wave him off with gentle insults, and even he, in their presence, never said, 'I was with Matthew'. He would say, 'I was with the frostback', or, 'Sorry, I had to ditch the Canuck.' They would laugh, and he would too.

He didn't really _mean_ it, but he said it anyway, because it was expected of him. He was so used to it that he had never even stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, Matthew's feeling were hurt by his thoughtlessness. They were only words. Not meant to wound. Teasing, at its best. Matthew knew it was just harmless fun.

...didn't he?

In truth, Alfred found that he didn't spend much time dwelling on it on a normal day, and even less when he was more absorbed with his other companions, because they were the exact opposite of quiet, meek Matthew; loud, obnoxious, confident, reckless, fearless and in charge. The things that he thrived on. He _needed_ that feeling. Matthew just didn't understand. When he was with them, he could feel like he was in control for once.

And as soon as he had huddled up within them, he took the head of the pack.

"So let's go!"

They fell in behind him, completing the circle, and to add to the almost magnetic appeal, every single one of them were the sons of war vets. Just like him. They had grown up with graphic war stories, as he had. They understood him. They knew what his household was like. Their fathers had killed, too.

Matthew could not boast such stories; hell, his parents were pacifists! His mother had worked in a shell factory for a brief time, and for him, that was as interesting as it got. Matthew was as proud of his gentle parents as Alfred was of his violent one, but the world wasn't interested in Matthew.

Still, though, this makeshift band of brothers had its fine, sharp edge, and Alfred had to be damn careful about what he said and did when he was with them; another boy in the group, one Tommy Ryan Jr., was the son of his father's best friend. And _everything_ he did went back to his father, one way or another.

Everything.

Which was why he did anything and everything in his power to avoid the European block, because they hated Germans too, and, well...

The thought of a repeat of _that incident_ (which was what his subconscious had labeled _it_ as, in his desperate repression) was too much. His father's sin. Not his. He didn't go over there. Didn't need to. He didn't need to cause _harm_.

He was content just with the feeling of being in control, even if it was an illusion, as they roamed the familiar streets, Alfred choosing directions and destinations, and when they passed the crowd parted for them like the Red Sea. Everyone knew who they were, and who their fathers were. Everyone either respected them or feared them. Either smiled at them or averted their eyes. Depended on where they were, and who was looking at them.

A feeling like no other.

They were vociferous in their taunting as they drifted here and there, and even if Alfred would _never_ say the things he said with them when he was alone, he joined in enthusiastically all the same. It was just different when they were together. Didn't feel as wrong as it would have if he had been by himself. He fed off of their anarchy. Peer pressure was a powerful force, and one he was alarmingly susceptible to.

He wouldn't _ever_ have done those things by himself. With them, it seemed less harsh.

Before he knew it, they had arrived at Central Park, his favorite hangout, and here he felt at ease. He loved the outdoors, even more in this time of year. Late fall. After the long, dreary heat of summer had bled them dry, but before the icy, snow-smothered inconvenience of winter. The trees in the park had already changed color, lighting the skyline up with vibrant, fiery shades of red and orange. The skies were cloudy, the breeze was mild, and he breathed a sigh of contentment as the leaves fell to the ground around him.

Everything was quiet here. A welcome break from the hectic pace of the city. An escape, from more than the bustle. He came here, because here was where he found the least trouble.

Usually.

Good things can only last for so long, and only a second was needed for things to turn upside down. So it was. A simple romp in the park took a dismal turn, and it was caused by something as simple as a man.

Oh, and what a man.

Alfred saw _him_ before the others did, and froze in place. The German. _That_ German. His luck. The very thing he strove so hard to avoid.

Alfred looked around, in a panic, and prayed, more than anything, that the others wouldn't notice.

Alfred recognized that man instantly, even from across the way. He was walking his dog, as he often did, and his white-blond hair and straight posture were dead giveaways. And so was his dog; a black German Shepherd wasn't a common sight around here. His clothes were neat and spotless, flawlessly ironed and every detail in place, but too big. Hair glossed back to perfection. Boots shining in the pale sunlight. Walking rigidly with an air of awareness, and maybe a bit of anxiety.

He was easy to spot. _Too_ easy, actually.

Alfred shuddered, and tried to divert attention elsewhere, looking off in the other direction. "Come on, guys, let's go—"

But it was too late, and the others had recognized him as well.

"Hey, _look_! There's the Fritz! Come on!"

"I see him! _Ha_!"

He felt his heart skip a beat, and when he looked over his shoulder, they were already halfway across the street. _Goddammit_. So much for that. He followed behind them, as the adrenaline flowed through his veins like a dreadful tidal wave. This was the last thing he had wanted.

The very last.

He wouldn't have minded if they went after some Italians, or some Russians, or even if they had teased the Chinese vendors. Vandalism would have been just fine. He could have gotten in on that. Hell, he could've even gotten in on some shoplifting.

But _that_ German—he _knew_.

Alfred would have taken anyone else. Anyone. Just not _that_ guy. That guy had seen. He had been there, that day.

The awful rush of anxiety in his chest came up so hard that he felt dizzy, and by the time Alfred had caught up with the others, they had already set to work tormenting the stone-faced blond. Alfred felt suddenly helpless, and that was the worst, because getting rid of that sense of _helplessness_ was the reason he even went along with those guys in the first place.

Too late. They had set him in their sights. What could he do? Same old, same old.

"Hey! Kraut!"

"Where ya goin'?"

They trailed behind him, close and rowdy, but the German only walked straight ahead, refusing to look back at them, even though his dog longed to turn, ears perked up and tongue hanging out in excitement.

Friends? No way.

The German was quick to gather up the leash in his hand, allowing no freedom of movement to the curious canine, and sped his pace, suddenly dragging his dog more than he was walking.

Oh, man. Now what? Alfred was torn between hanging back, where he would not have to see or get involved, but if he followed, then it was possible that he could try to moderate a bit. The others respected him, and sometimes, in the right mood, they could be called off. Sometimes. What could he do? That guy always caused him trouble, whether he meant to or not.

Couldn't stand it.

That guy had seen him. Seen him do nothin'.

"Oh, goddammit," he cursed under his breath, and lifted his foot as he sought to gain on them.

Had to be that guy.

"Fritz! Hey, we're talkin' to you!"

"You deaf?"

"Maybe he doesn't speak English!"

They were calling after him, but still the German refused to acknowledge them, keeping himself up straight and tall and absolutely unbending. Alfred hoped that they would get bored at his unshakeable calm, as they sometimes did, maybe leave him alone in search of more exciting ventures, but maybe not this time.

One of them suddenly burst into laughter, and reached out, shoving the German from behind with all of his might, just because he could. The blond staggered forward and tripped over his own dog, which he had kept too close to his side. The canine yelped as his owner stepped on his paw, and the German fell to one knee to avoid stepping on him again.

They didn't let up, though, and Alfred's brow furrowed when they shoved him again, when he was down. Hardly admirable. As _brave_ as his fuckin' father had been, that day.

Alfred was certain that there would be a confrontation, then. Patience was not without its limits. Even for that cold man.

Yet the German, hands clenched suddenly at his sides, only pulled himself to his feet, lifted up his chin, and walked on as though nothing had happened. It _had_ to have hurt his pride, had to have, but he gave away nothing. Just walked, without a word. No emotion on his face. Not a thing. Only calmness, and dignity. Even now.

Alfred was glad that nothing had come of it, and he finally managed to grab one of his friends by the arm to pull him back, when the verbal assault heightened. A tug. But they weren't paying attention to Alfred, focused on their prey. Hard to shake them off when they were going at it.

"He doesn't listen, does he?"

"Well, what do you expect from a Nazi?"

"Nazi! Right! Hey, what's that thing they say?"

"Ah—oh! Sieg heil! Hey, Nazi! That's it, right? Sieg heil!"

They poked his back as they said it, so cheerfully, and it was too much. Too much. Not the poking. Not the shoving. Not the laughing or the teasing or the cruelty. Not the audacity of touching him. Not their relentlessness.

_That_ word. That guy couldn't _stand_ that word.

The German's cool exterior finally broke, if only a little, and after a horrible tensing of his shoulders, he whirled around like a viper, his dog turning with him, and the venom in his voice was audible as he cried, "Don't call me that!"

There was a pause of surprise as they stared at him, because the German had _never_ talked back, in all those years. That was a first. A moment of stillness, and even Alfred stopped trying to corral them for a second, just to stare. The first time Alfred had ever even heard his voice. Deep. As intimidating as he was. Heavily accented. More of a rumble than anything else. Not exactly what Alfred had expected, somehow.

For all it mattered.

A long silence.

The German's pulse was visible in his neck as he clenched his jaw. Alfred's heart started to sink, feeling as if everything was sliding downhill. The dog started to wag its tail, like they were going to pet it at any second. Like it was lookin' at friends or somethin'.

Dumb dog.

Then they suddenly burst into merciless giggles at the German's thick accent, leaning against each other for support as they howled in a manner that may have been more of glee than humor. Alfred tried to laugh with them when they jostled, but just couldn't.

Nothing came out.

They didn't notice his reluctance, focused elsewhere, and one of them managed to wheeze, through his laughter, "D-Don't cawl heem zat, you guys!" before finally dissolving.

Fuckin' hyenas.

One of them reached back and nudged Alfred in the side with an elbow as he giggled. Alfred could only smile, weakly, but the effort quickly fell when the German flushed a terrible shade of red, his humiliation visible all the way down to his collar, and suddenly things weren't so funny. If they ever had been.

Pitiful.

It was just a German, he knew, but Christ, _he_ was embarrassed, even, for him, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, feeling that it was long past time to part ways before the situation got out of hand. _Again_. He had caught his guys several times before assaulting this particular German, and good god, how many times had they goaded him into joining? He had laid hands on this rather steely blond on at least three separate occasions. Maybe more. Sometimes, he tried to block it out as he did everything else.

Just try not to think about it.

"Alfred, did you _hear_ him? Say it again, Fritz! Come on!"

He gave a flimsy, false laugh, and felt his stomach twist when those ice-blue eyes bored into his own with alarming intensity, as they always did. He had looked into those eyes before. On that day.

Those eyes.

Coulda _killed_ , that gaze. Hadn't ever seen eyes like those. Hadn't ever seen such a potent glare, either, and every time that man looked at him, a distant memory flashed before him. Every time he had ever stood over the beaten German, his friends laughing at his side, he could only see his father, standing the same way over old Mr. Schulze, on that sunny day.

Like looking into a mirror.

Something he had never wanted. Standing over someone else like that. Didn't even know how it still happened. And the German had only ever looked up at him, the hatred easily visible on his face, but never said a word.

Not a word.

Alfred just kept on flowing down the steady river, making no effort to try to change. Couldn't seem to. Felt daunting. Like looking up at Mount Everest and knowing he could never summit that, not that. Too scared to go against his old man. Too scared to break away from the gang and go on his own path. In those moments, he hated himself. He hated his cowardice. He hated his need to conform. He hated the guilt. He hated the memory. He hated _everything_.

Hated when that man stared at him like that. Too much.

Sudden, faint screams of years past echoed in his ears, and Alfred felt himself stumbling back, desperate to leave before it all came back to him. Didn't want to remember, and that man _made_ him remember, no matter how hard Alfred tried to push it back.

Couldn't stand the way that man looked at him.

Hated the way he found himself frozen in the German's gaze, like a deer. No escape. Alfred was caught, as he usually was, and couldn't get his feet working, at least until there was a movement.

Reaching down to grab his dog's collar, the German narrowed his eyes, lifted his chin, sent them all a scalding glare, and finally muttered, lowly, "Leave me _alone_."

Alone. Didn't he know that that was what Alfred _wanted_ , more than anything? Just to leave him alone, and be left alone in return? To not be stared at like that. To not have to remember. All he wanted.

The words jostled him out of his immobility, and he was quick to grab his chance.

"Come on, guys," he finally said, as soon as he recovered, and he hid the tremor in his voice well, "This is boring!"

And even as he backed up, the German still refused to look away, narrowed eyes burning him.

"Let's go," he urged them, maybe too eagerly, and somehow he broke the piecing gaze, turning on his heel and marching off as his heart pounded in his chest. Their footsteps followed behind, thankfully, and still they giggled, even in retreat, but Alfred couldn't even respond to their dumb jokes as he sped through the streets.

Too busy running from a memory that threatened to chase him down.

He tried to flee from it, as he had all these years, and it seemed that every time he found himself less successful. Every time he saw _that_ man, he almost remembered. It was supposed to be forgotten.

_That incident_.

Why was it always after him? Why couldn't he just _forget_ about it? They were only Germans. His father said it every day. Every day. They weren't really _people_. Just Nazi thugs and goose-stepping murderers. And the law must have agreed, because his father had not gone to jail back then. _He_ hadn't been punished, either, for his parts, for all those things his father had goaded him into.

Everything, everyone, said he was right. He was right. Had to be. So then why couldn't he just _believe_ it, like the others did? It didn't bother them. Never had.

Alfred hated that German, because when he looked at that man, that was the only time that Alfred couldn't pretend that he was right.

_His_ fault. Had to be his fault. Had to be the fault of the German. His fault, for not understanding that Alfred didn't want to be his old man anymore. His fault, for not avoiding Alfred more thoroughly. His fault, for going where he shouldn't. His fault, for being so stubborn and so easy to target.

His fault, that Alfred couldn't put it behind him.

Easier to blame it on the German.

Still never felt right, though. Something always felt so off. So wrong. He wanted something else. He just didn't know _what_. He just didn't know how to get away from it.

When would he get away from it?

The German's fault.


	3. Carousel Waltz

**Chapter 3**

**Carousel Waltz**

Every day was the same.

Endless monotony, ruthless ennui, and even though under any other circumstance Ludwig _liked_ monotony and routine and order, this was not what he had had in mind when he had boarded that ship in Hamburg years ago, sailing up the Elbe with only a passport and a dream of the Statue of Liberty and a new life. He had been naïve, then, maybe, but, oh, the word on his tongue had sounded so strange and enticing back then; Manhattan. He had envisioned magnificent stone buildings, Broadway in its glory, a paradise across the ocean.

That had been five years ago. And now...

Now.

He _hated_ this city.

He hated the smell of it; rancid and foul and damp, and the gutters were dark and ominous. The air was thick and all but impossible to breathe, heavy with years of smog. The only sight of plant life, apart from the small windowsill flowers and gardens, was out in the park, and even there the sky beheld that oily shimmer of pollution.

He hated the sound of it; never a moment of quiet. There was always the honking of taxis in the street, always the shouts of the pedestrians and the street thugs. Always the bleary lights of a police car, or the shrill cry of an ambulance. He could hear the rain when it fell, but only against the backdrop of a never sleeping city.

He hated the look of it; steel and iron all around, twisting on the skyline like an ugly forest. Style with no substance, ingenuity with no beauty. The windows were reflective, and always alight. In the day by the sun, at night by the lights from within. He had had to put a blanket over his bedroom window to block out the intrusive illumination, just to sleep. He could not see the stars over the haze.

More than anything he hated the _feel_ of it; gloomy and so overwhelmingly dismal, and even though he was surrounded on every side by millions of people, he still felt so _lonely_. And it seemed that every day he awoke to the sounds of the bustling city outside, his childish dream of a better life was steadily slipping through his fingers like sand.

For all that happened here, it would perhaps have been more beneficial for him to have simply stayed in Germany. He had been too brash in his decision to cross the Atlantic. Too foolhardy. Too desperate to get away from bad memories.

Shoulda stayed home.

Maybe so, but how? How could he have stayed _there_?

Just the thought of it made him shudder down to his boots, and, as the sounds of the city alerted him to the start of another languid day, he pulled himself from his bed with a sigh, dragging his feet as he approached his closet. And even though he hated having to step outside and walk down those treacherous streets, he would do so dutifully, if only because it kept his mind off of the past.

That town.

Keep himself occupied.

Hated this place, but had accepted it. He would take the beatings and not say a word, because at least here the buildings (hideous though they were) were not full of ghosts and memories and that soul-numbing question of 'what if?'

What if he had just stayed home that day? What if he hadn't looked?

Couldn't stand thinking about it. The lesser of two evils here, in a way.

He pulled on a tank top, and as he made to the door, he caught his reflection in the mirror, and paused, his dog waiting impatiently beside him, tail wagging away as he waited for Ludwig to open the door.

Staring at the mirror.

As usual. Because he just didn't _get_ it. There were plenty of Americans that had blond hair and blue eyes and pale skin. Like his. And there were plenty of Americans that were tall and willowy. Like he was. How many Americans did he see walking down the street that had straight noses and strong jaws? As his were. So what was it about _him_ that stood out so? How did they pick him out from the crowd so effortlessly?

He didn't get it.

Maybe his hair was paler than the blond he usually saw here, and his skin was a bit paler too, and his eyes were a cooler blue. Maybe his legs were too long. Or maybe the bridge of his nose was too narrow. Or maybe it was just because he _looked_ like the poster boy of every Aryan stereotype he had ever heard. But that wasn't fair, and how could he have known when he settled down on this street that he was not welcome? It wasn't his fault. Who could help how they looked?

He had tried so hard to fit in. To be a good citizen. He didn't ever bother anyone. No one ever had to call the cops on him for noise complaints, like some of his neighbors. He never caused trouble. He left everyone alone. He paid his bills and went to work, like everyone else. He paid taxes. He had his passport. Had a visa. Had papers and documents.

But it didn't really seem to matter, and he had slowly come to realize that just his presence here was an annoyance, because in this land, Germans were just Nazis.

Oh, Christ, he _hated_ that word. They could call him anything they wanted except _that_ , because he had _seen_. In the de-railed train car.

He'd seen.

Hated that word.

He shook his head to clear it of that godawful thought, and fled the room, grabbing up a comb as he went. Couldn't let that memory win, not now, not after he'd come so far, and as he hopped down the stairs, smoothing out his hair, he could swear that he felt the butt of a rifle in the middle of his back. Like then.

The dog bolted down the stairs, hungry and excited as ever, and Ludwig followed him without thought.

A sudden noise brought Ludwig from his dream state, and he set his comb down on an end-table as he approached the kitchen warily. A constant state of wariness had been the norm for him lately. It was _exhausting_ , to always expect the worst, but what else was there? Nothing here had ever been good for him.

A shuffle from within.

As he crossed the threshold into his tiny kitchen, he realized from the smell that coffee was already made, and when he looked over, there was someone sitting at the table. Figured. A man, with messy brown hair and clothes that had probably never even _seen_ an iron, let alone felt one, and he was making himself quite at home, leaning over a mug of coffee with bread in hand.

Ah.

Ludwig slumped for a weary second, and then the man turned around, and shot him a lopsided smile through a full mouth.

Ludwig could only shake his head in exasperation, and then he suddenly drew his arms over himself in sudden embarrassment when he realized that he stood in his kitchen in only boxers and a very flimsy shirt. The man before him was unfazed by his red cheeks and virtual nakedness, and Ludwig could only say, sternly, "Antonio! Remind me again why I've given you a key?"

"Becumf am gronmph," was the unintelligible response, as Antonio tried to speak through the bread he was eating, and Ludwig's nose crinkled in disgust.

After a second of noisy chewing, in which Ludwig poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back against the counter (refusing to be anywhere near the moist breadcrumbs Antonio was spewing all over the table), Antonio finally put the last of it back and rasped, "Because I make good coffee."

Oh. Yeah, actually. He did. He did make good coffee.

"And you," Antonio added, in that strangely accented German that Ludwig liked (how he trilled away those 'r's!), "make really good bread. See? We just help each other out, is all."

Snorting, Ludwig met Antonio's ever happy green eyes, and felt some of his anxiety evaporate. They did help each other, and it was with relief that he came home sometimes to find the cheerful Spaniard sitting on his couch, or raiding his kitchen, or even occasionally sleeping in his bed. And even though he was promptly kicked out, it was always with good humor.

Needed that boost, some days. Needed a _friend_.

A symbiotic relationship, because Ludwig provided the English-inept Antonio with a helping hand in the sometimes frustrating world of job-searching and bill paying and even just eating out, and it had been _he_ who had done all the paperwork for that apartment and those applications to the ESL classes when Antonio had been on the verge of tears of frustration. And Antonio provided Ludwig with...

Well.

Company. Friendship. A brief solace from the hell of the world outside, and, above all, Antonio gave him hope that not all of mankind was as hateful as the rest. Because Antonio had never cared that Ludwig was German, why would he, and that tiny bit of comfort was worth anything. Antonio had lived in Germany, spoke German, and Ludwig needed that sense of home. He didn't make friends so easily, and he clung to Antonio for that.

"Where are we going today?"

"I am going to work, and you are going home."

Antonio smiled up at him from the table, crooning, "Can't I stay here?"

"Absolutely not."

"Don't you like having me around?"

"No," he lied, and Antonio's smile widened.

"Have I been replaced?"

"Hardly."

They met each others eyes, and Ludwig could see the fondness on Antonio's face. His love life (or decided lack thereof) had always been a topic of great interest. He supposed that his quiet solitude and social shyness was just something that adventurous, lively Antonio could simply not understand. Antonio had asked him, once, 'When can I meet your girlfriend?' and had looked absolutely flabbergasted when Ludwig had informed him quite coolly that he didn't have one.

He sat down at the table, wiping it neatly with a cloth, and Antonio leaned in, leering.

"Haven't seen you much, lately. Sure you're not sneaking out to meet someone? A date? Maybe?"

For a second, Ludwig's good mood foundered, as it usually did. He probably _did_ have a date, alright, but it was not the kind that he would have looked forward to, and it seemed that that gang of tormentors had been growing steadily bolder. More intent. Before, he had encountered them only on the odd month, if that. Now, it seemed hardly a week passed before they ran into each other. Was it just terrible luck, or were they so bored that they had nothing better to do than to trail him, like dogs behind a fox?

What was it about _him?_ They didn't do anyone else like that.

It was no doubt, he thought bitterly, thanks to that broad-shouldered, bespectacled, arrogant, egotistical, self-satisfied, loud-mouthed, all-American brat that seemed to be their official leader. Ha. Some leader! Letting the pack do his dirty work as he stood on the sidelines, shuffling his feet and looking about this way and that, smiling shiftily until he had been called into action.

What a guy.

The very first time it had happened, that first time, Ludwig had saw him shifting his weight oddly, and for a delirious moment thought that he was going to _help_. That he would at least call them off, maybe. That he would rein them in.

He didn't.

He kicked and punched as hard as the rest, albeit stiffly and maybe reluctantly.

Afraid to mess up his hands, no doubt, and maybe his reluctance was just cowardice at the chance of being chastised by the lethargic police officers that sat in their cars and barked orders from behind cups of coffee. God forbid someone try to tell that man something he didn't wanna hear. Because he hated Germans as much as the rest of them, didn't he, and him and his father were a perfect maleficent pair.

Those two.

Lately, Ludwig couldn't help but think that maybe it would one day be his fate to reside on the sidewalk, under the boots of the son, just as that old man across the street (poor old Dieter) had been under the boots of the father. Felt like an inevitability. Hell. If it _was_ , then dwelling on it with a churning stomach wasn't going to change it, and he tried to come back from the dark when Antonio poked his shoulder, and he realized that he had been speaking the whole while.

"You listening?"

"Yeah," he muttered, and Antonio carried on.

"Anyway, like I was saying. Whatever happened to that sexy little Italian girl that you used to hang around?" He leered, and ran his hands down his waist enticingly as Ludwig rolled his eyes, adding, "You know! The one with the hips? Whew! What was her name? Ophelia? You and her used to go out all the time."

"Felicia," Ludwig muttered, and shook his head.

Ah, man. Better not to think about her.

Oh, Felicia.

"Yeah! Why don't you just hook up with her? I never got it. You two used to be so close! She was always running after you, remember? Saying your name!" Antonio tittered, and imitated in a high-pitched voice, " _Ludovico_! _Ludovico_! It was so cute. What happened?"

Aghast, Ludwig turned at his waist in his chair, meeting Antonio's pretty eyes with a look of disbelief.

_Really_?

"Her _brother_ came up behind me in the market and put a _gun_ to the back of my _head_. How could you have _possibly_ forgotten this?"

"Oh-ho-ho, yeah!" Antonio crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back, murmuring wistfully, "Luna Lovi! Must'a slipped my mind."

What? _How_?

"That's something that, I hope, would be hard to forget."

Especially since it had been Antonio who had knocked the gun away and nearly strangled Luna Lovi with his own tie. So surely he hadn't _forgotten._ It had been the angriest he had ever seen calm Antonio, and there were no more confrontations whenever Antonio was with him.

Actually, roles had been reversed; when Luna Lovi saw Antonio coming, _he_ ran in the opposite direction.

Ludwig nearly scoffed at the thought of it.

Luna Lovi. That whacko. Total nutjob.

The entire community knew full well that 'Luna Lovi' was just short for 'Lunatic Lovino', which was the street name of Lovino Vargas, a wannabe Mafioso that had his very own corner (and not much else), and he had had his crazy sights set on Ludwig ever since the first day pretty little Felicia had walked over to him. A shameless Germanophobe with a sailor's mouth and a foul temper, Luna Lovi did everything he could think of to make Ludwig's life a living hell (crank calls, threatening notes pinned with knives to his door, stalking, physical altercations, waving a gun in his face, slapping him in a crowded street, even going so far once as to try to set fire to his doorstep) until, finally, it was just too damn much.

Ludwig had been forced to sever all contact with Felicia, and he had _hated_ it, more than anything, because that woman had been the first person on this side that had ever been _nice_ to him. Loved her. Loved the feel of her hands, loved her eyes, loved her voice. Loved _her_ , everything about her.

Loved her smile.

She had kept him afloat more than Antonio had, and distancing himself from her was agonizing. Just maybe not as agonizing as a bullet.

He had even put iron bars on his windows to prevent intrusion.

Enemies on _all_ sides.

"Can you imagine havin' that guy as a brother-in-law?" Ludwig suddenly grumbled, and rested his chin in his palm as Antonio threw an arm around his shoulders.

"So Luna Lovi overreacted a little bit. Crazy in-laws shouldn't stand in the way of true love." He grinned, shaking Ludwig enthusiastically as though scrambling his brain enough would make him reconsider.

Yeah, right. Loved Felicia, but not in the way Luna Lovi and Antonio had thought. Sure had tried, though, and damn hard. Just hadn't happened. Whether or not she loved him like that, he couldn't say, but he suspected she didn't. She loved him, he had no doubt, as much as he loved her, but they hadn't ever been romantic.

Unfortunately. He had tried so hard to make himself fall in love with her.

Ludwig bowed his head in exasperation, grunting, "Overreacted? Christ, I never even _kissed_ her and he nearly _whacked_ me. Anyway, I think I'm better off by myself for now." After a moment, he amended, "For _ever_ , actually."

He couldn't even settle himself, let alone attempt to be in a relationship. Hard enough keeping himself together, although Antonio meant well.

"Ah," Antonio threw back, nonchalantly, "Don't worry about it. Good things to those who wait and so forth and so on..."

A final firm shake of camaraderie from Antonio, and they fell silent.

Looking up at the clock, Ludwig saw with a pang that it was almost time to set out. He would have longed for nothing more than to bar the door and sit here with Antonio and never set foot outside again, but bills did not just go away. A terrible fact of life that he had learned far too soon.

"I've got to go," he said, standing, and Antonio's face fell a little.

"Too bad."

"Sorry," he responded, as he set aside the cold coffee and quickly disappeared up the stairs.

Work, work, work. Here, everything was just work. No time for much else. Honestly, he hadn't really known it would be this _hard_. He'd been an idiot, through and through.

Too late now.

He sifted through his closet, and now his face fell as much as Antonio's.

Simple things weren't so simple anymore. When he picked out his clothes before, he used to wear his best; crisp whites and neatly ironed pants, looking to impress the world and himself. But now? He wore grey and black, because dirt and sweat and blood were harder to wash out of white than they were on black. Every routine had become sinister.

From his bedroom, he passed into the bathroom, and set about morning routines; shaving, glossing his hair, brushing his teeth.

Mundane. Stifling.

When he was ready to go, he tromped down the stairs and headed to the front door, and Antonio called from behind, "Do you want me to come with you?"

That was a routine too. Antonio knew damn well what happened out there on the streets, although he had never seen it outright, and Ludwig knew that he longed to tag along and make himself useful, and oh _god_ , how he would have loved to see Antonio strangle that American brat with the collar of his ugly leather jacket à la Luna Lovi.

Still.

"No, thanks."

"...alright. See you later."

The door shut, and Ludwig cast only a glance at the window, where the dog sat with chin on pane, watching him go with the sadness that only a dog could really feel. Ludwig gave him a wave, as always, and carried on.

The dog and Antonio; hard to say which one worried about him more.

Antonio's offer was always turned down, and even though Antonio might have assumed it was just stubborn bullheadedness and maybe a care of the well-being of someone other than himself, there was a simpler explanation:

Pride.

His pride was all he had _left_ , and Christ almighty, how could he ever look Antonio in the eye again if he had seen him on one of _those_ days?

Those days.

If Antonio ever saw Ludwig pinned up against the wall of an alley, helpless and overwhelmed, held in place as he was beaten within a breath of consciousness. If he ever saw him doubled over, gasping for breath on the pavement, bloody and bruised and using his arms to defend his head. If he ever saw him after, as he walked home slowly and unsteadily, trying to keep his chin up as the girls saw his beaten appearance and giggled. If he saw him inside, lying on his side on the couch and burying his face in a pillow as he tried not to just give up all hope, even the licking on his hand hardly rousing him.

Saw him humiliated like that.

That Antonio would ever see him in such a state. Couldn't bear that thought. Of Antonio looking at him any differently.

His pride would probably kill him one day.

At least inside the little bakery where he worked, there was a world of calm and quiet. No one bothered him there. He was not even in public sight, spending his time in the back, kneading dough and tending the brick oven, his apron and clothes covered in flour. Ha. His boss raised a brow every time he came in, and always asked, with hand on hip, why he wore black clothes when he worked with flour. White would have been better.

Ludwig only smiled halfheartedly, and shrugged a shoulder.

They thought he was the 'weird one'. Maybe he was. Didn't speak much, didn't interact, didn't have any friends, aside from Felicia and Antonio. No one that would ever call him at home just to say 'hello'. He had no family here. He didn't have family _anywhere_.

He was alone.

Maybe that was why he was the most frequent target, because he always traveled alone, always walked alone, lived alone. He had no one who would back him up. Easy pickings.

Whenever he left work, he walked as fast as he could down the street, tense and aware of his surroundings. It was only a few blocks, but it always felt like an eternity. It was a shame, to not be able to walk outside without feeling so apprehensive. He looked over his shoulder frequently, always alert, and yet somehow they always snuck up on him. Every single time. Couldn't figure it out.

Today, he realized, when the sun was low on the horizon and he was leaving the shop to go home for the night, would be no different, and he had barely gone three blocks before he heard the giggles from behind.

Damn.

Another day. Same old, same old. Exhausting.

With a clench of his jaw, he steadied himself, lifted his head, and walked on. Either it would be taunting, or it would be physical. Either way, he wouldn't stop. Wouldn't look back. Wouldn't give them the time of day. Wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing him break composure. Hell! Maybe one of these days they might even get _bored_ of him.

He could hope.

Like everything else, this was just another routine.

First came the names.

"Hey, there Kraut! Where ya goin'?"

Been there.

Then came the shoves.

"Why don't you just go back wherever ya came from, huh?"

Done that.

And then...

"Hey! Come'ere!"

A hand on his upper arm, one hard pull, a stumble into the alley, and he was pressed against the wall, and they stood around him on either side.

Like always.

It only took a second, and he couldn't really help but admire the way they had turned bullying into an art form; if they spent even half of the time _thinking_ that they spent planning out their maps of warfare, they might have been rather successful by now. They certainly knew the streets, and even his routine, and they moved together like a school of fish, mimicking each other flawlessly.

Certainly a skill, if not a cruel one.

The dirty bricks of the alley wall were pressing into his shoulder blades.

A moment of silence, as he stood completely still before them, reluctant to provoke an early attack, and quickly looked both ways for an escape. But there was none, and as he looked at them, he realized their leader was absent. He almost snorted in amusement at the thought that they could think and function without being directed. Go figure. Well, the fewer the better. 'Jones' somehow grated him the worst anyway.

Two of them were suddenly at his sides, grabbing his arms and pinning him in, and he braced his feet.

Someone leaned in next to him then and whispered, "You got a lot of nerve being here. My old man stormed Normandy and got shot by you fuckin' Jerry."

Normandy. Jerry. Yeah, yeah, he'd heard all this before. Think of something new.

He closed his eyes, and more than anything, he just felt lethargic. So _tired_.

Carry on. Just words.

"Not mine," came another voice. "My daddy shot down Nazis over London. Took out seventeen before the war was over."

"Mine was a paratrooper. Landed in France and wiped out a whole barn full of Jerry."

_'So what?'_ he longed to retort. He had never killed anyone. He had never been behind a machinegun. He had never flown in the Blitzkrieg _._ He had never been in the bowels of a Panzer. He had never even held a damn gun, not even when it had been mandatory for every single citizen, even kids, to protect the country.

"Mine liberated a camp in Dachau."

Dachau.

The name shook him from his numb stupor, and he couldn't help but feel a jolt of panic. That memory had been long since buried. Dachau was all in the past, _all_ of it was, and he couldn't let himself remember anything about it. The past. It was done. Over. It couldn't happen again. So long, so many years, trying to get over that. The war was _over_. Why didn't they get that?

Just like that, he panicked.

Usually didn't, and couldn't really understand why he did that time, when he knew better than to struggle. The urge to flee was too great, and he suddenly pushed against them, breaking one arm free before he was forced back into place, and they sprung.

Knew better than that. Stupid.

People walked by, but no one stopped. No one cared if a gang of American boys were beating up a German in an alleyway. He was only a German. He had no status here. No one _cared_. He'd learned that long ago.

'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.'

He'd memorized that line by heart, struggling to figure out the pronunciation and to remember the words, but he'd done it. He just hadn't known, back then, that there had been an unspoken line at the end of that hopeful proclamation.

'Unless they're German, then you can keep them.'

Ha! Dumb. He'd been so _dumb_.

The best thing to do now was just to drift off, and ignore the pain. Think of something else. Anything.

They were relentless, tireless as always, but after long minutes the pummeling stopped, for just a moment, and, as he heaved to catch his breath, he could hear them shouting at someone.

"Jones!"

Of course. _He_ would show up.

Ludwig looked up, squinting through the pain, and sure enough, on the other side of the street was the absent member of the group, walking briskly. He stopped at their cries, and looked over, and when he saw them he smiled and took a step forward, a bright look on his face.

"Come on!"

Then Jones suddenly stopped, dead cold in the street, and Ludwig could see that his smile had faded, as they locked eyes briefly. Jones didn't move, then, no matter how hard the guys tried to wave him over. A short silence, and then, surprisingly, Jones backed away.

"Jones! Hey, Jones! Where are you going?"

"I'm late for something," was the too-quick response, and Ludwig watched with little less than disgust as he sped off, hands in his pockets, looking over his shoulder with a guarded expression. His friends waved him off with chides, and when Jones came to the end of the block, he went around it, and they looked away.

Ludwig didn't, and it was to his surprise when Jones suddenly poked his head around the corner, carefully, as though he were spying on something he should not.

A slap to his face broke Ludwig's stare for only a second, and when he looked back, he found himself locked into a pair of dark-blue eyes, and it was then that he realized absurdly that Jones had a black eye too. Street fighting, no doubt. His fingers gripped the edge of the building as he spied, and his stance seemed the same as always; confident and proud and sure.

There was something strange swirling behind those glasses, though, something that Ludwig couldn't quite put his finger on, and he was suddenly thrown back into that very first time, when he had foolishly thought that Jones would come to his aid. Because it looked as though he wanted to do _something_ , but maybe that strange light was just the longing to join in.

But if he were really late, as he said, then why was he lingering?

Maybe...

Oh, _god_ , let Jones step forward and help, intervene, distract them, call them away, shoo them off, _anything_! It would only lead to downfall and more bitterness than he already had, he was sure of it, but, _oh_ , Ludwig longed to believe that Jones would suddenly cross the street and grab his friends and pull them away, and let him just go _home_ , just this once.

Just once.

No go. Jones didn't move, frozen in place, and they stared at each other as though through a fog, and Ludwig could see the apprehension, even from across the street. Reluctance. Agitation. And something ? Almost as though—

It was absurd and foolish, and _unfair_ , but he was certain that Jones looked at him with such a severe brow and such pursed lips because he was trying to say that this whole thing was...

The intense stare was broken when Jones suddenly turned away and rounded the corner, disappearing into the crowd and taking with him that small shard of hope, and Ludwig was thrust back into the dark, with only that strange, burning gaze left to keep his mind company as the fists assaulted his body.

That look.

He was almost too _incredulous_ to feel the fist that landed in his stomach, almost too stunned with disbelief to feel the fingers digging into his arms, because he was certain now what Jones was trying to tell him.

...that it was _his_ fault. That everything, that all of this, all of it, was somehow _his_ fault.

Selfish. Ignorant.

It was his fault. Because he had had the nerve, the _audacity_ , to have been born a German.

The ones layin' hands on him now didn't even matter then. Ludwig couldn't even focus on them anymore. Not then.

Jones.

Oh.

He _hated_ that man.


	4. Skater's Waltz

**Chapter 4**

**Skater's Waltz**

It was only obligation to his uncle.

Because Alfred would never have willingly set foot into the European market, holding bags in every hand and being used as nothing more than a rather handsome donkey, if it were not for a strong obligation to his uncle, to whom he owed at _least_ this much, maybe more, and also to whom Matthew owed a bit of money.

Surrounded by short, stocky women wearing scarves and unusual sights and smells, Alfred glanced over at Matthew, who held so many bags that his head could scarcely be seen above them, and then asked aloud, "What else do we need, again?"

A good distance ahead, flouncing this way and that between stalls with a sense of self-assurance, Francis looked over his shoulder and answered, breezily, " _Brioche_!"

"What's that?"

"Bread. Or maybe it's more like cake to you."

"Cake-bread? Gross."

Francis waved him off with a hapless hand, no doubt rolling his eyes, and Alfred and Matthew watched with mild annoyance as he leaned over a stall full of different cheeses, although it appeared as though he was more interested in purchasing the woman behind it rather than her wares.

Eh. What a creep.

...only obligation.

"Well," Matthew grumbled at his side, shifting his weight as the bags threatened to fall, "At least it's only once a month."

Thank god for small favors.

Alfred furrowed his brow, resigned himself to this suffering, and resumed his pace dutifully when his uncle freed himself from the charms of the vendor and carried on.

Didn't like being in the European community for any period of time, and liked even less being used as a glorified bag boy, but Alfred could nonetheless say that he did enjoy the time that was spent with his uncle, no matter how short or in what circumstance. Sure did love Francis, creep or no.

Sundays had become a reprieve from his father's domineering aura, and as soon as he left the house to spend the day with his gruff war buddies, Alfred would first run to gather Matthew, and would then slink off and appear on his uncle's doorstep, like clockwork. Francis was always happy to see them, and it was more important than anything else in the world that there was someone who would smile at him and offer him fatherly words without expecting anything of him in return.

Alfred couldn't remember his mother, but he hoped that she had been everything that Francis was; soft-spoken and gentle and forgiving, with a calm voice and comforting hands. He couldn't really see himself in Francis, no matter how hard he tried, but Francis was always quick to say that Alfred had the look and manner of his mother.

Manner?

Hoped that Francis misread that, and hoped that Francis didn't know his real manner. He was pretty sure his beautiful mother had never wandered the street in a gang.

Still, something about that was both enthralling, and then disheartening, because he had never really had the chance to get to know her, and he hoped that he really did have something of her. Something in him that wasn't all his father.

That was why Francis was so important; for Alfred, Francis was all that remained now of his mother.

And that was why his father hated Francis so much, no doubt.

Oh, how his father _hated_ the French-born Francis. He hated everything about him, right down to his hair, and it was only with the greatest of efforts that he managed to control his outbursts in the brief moments that they did encounter themselves together (the odd Christmas, or Thanksgiving), limiting himself to only a halfhearted frog joke or a quick 'Pierre'. Alfred liked to think that it was lingering concern for his mother's honor that kept his father in line. Francis, for his part, kept unusually quiet and looked beleaguered, more than anything else. Alfred hated being stuck in between them. Such awkward encounters.

Maybe thinking about his dead wife hurt his father too much, so he just lashed out at Francis for it.

"Alright!" Francis suddenly said, straightening up and looking around, and Alfred heaved a sigh when he realized that they were finally finished. He glanced quickly at his watch; two hours. Well, a new speed record had been broken. That was hopeful, at least.

Better each time.

"Are we done?" Matthew asked hopefully, in disbelief, and they held their breath until they had stepped out from beneath the covered market and back into the pale sunlight.

Only then did they sigh in relief, and followed Francis from behind, loaded down. Francis wasn't even carrying a single bag.

...okay, well, in addition to being a creep, Francis could also be kind of a jerk.

Alfred loved him all the same.

"I hope it snows soon," Francis muttered from ahead, and Alfred glanced up at the grey skies.

"Well, it looks like—"

" _No!_ "

"—it might! Maybe...tonight."

The hell?

He turned his head to the other side of the street, raising his eyes above his bags curiously. He could have sworn, for a moment, that he had heard someone screaming.

He saw nothing. Huh.

He turned back straight ahead, brushing it off, and Matthew and Francis were walking on as normal, but the crease in Francis' brow made him wonder if he had just been hearing things after all.

" _I'll kill you!_ "

There it was again.

He straightened up, slowly coming to a complete halt as he struggled to pinpoint the location, eyes scanning across the way as his shoulders tensed.

" _No_!"

It had to be from around the corner. Screeching and cursing.

Feeling a burn of adrenaline in his veins, he leapt forward, shoving all of the bags into Francis' arms with eagerness.

"Here!" he cried, and he could feel his heart begin to race, and he was _always_ looking for an opportunity to help someone.

Anyone. Didn't even matter who it was or why.

He'd do anything.

He loved playing the role of hero. It was a high like nothing else, but it wasn't because of the act of helping itself; it was the reaction afterwards. In complete truth, he wasn't overly concerned with the well-being of those he helped, but god, to hear them later! Praising and thankful, their words of gratitude inflating his ego and self-satisfaction to nearly criminal levels.

Was it such a bad thing? He didn't think so. Someone got the assistance that they needed, and he got a dose of desperately needed self-worth. Oh, god. He'd do just about anything to feel a little better about himself. Anything, to hate himself a little less.

A win-win. Most of the time.

So why was Matthew always so goddamn _worried_? Why did Francis always shake his head and look alarmed? He didn't get it. They were always on his case. And sure enough, as soon as he had taken a step forward, he heard a hissed, " _Alfred_ ," from Matthew behind him; a warning, and he froze in his tracks, looking over his shoulder guiltily.

The screaming was getting louder. Closer.

They were watching him intensely, Francis frowning, and Matthew was shaking his head.

He twitched, _longing_ to go on and see what was happening.

Oh, man. Couldn't they understand?

"I won't be long," he ventured, eagerly, but Francis cut him short with a stern brow.

"Curiosity killed the cat."

They were always so worried about _everything_ , and the sound of screaming to them was an instant deterrent. After all, Francis had said it himself that he was 'a lover not a fighter', and Matthew would go to hell and back to avoid a confrontation.

He should have listened to them, he _knew_ , but...

" _Bastard_!"

But his curiosity was just too strong.

"Yeah, but cats have nine lives!"

"Alfred! Wait!"

He didn't.

"I'll be right back!"

And with that, ears perked up and eyes alert, he darted off across the street, and from behind he heard Matthew lament to Francis as he went, "He doesn't listen! He never listens! Why doesn't he _listen_?" and Francis only sighed. In his mind's eye, he could see them shaking their heads in exasperation.

They just didn't understand. They never had. The urge to play the role of savior was too strong to simply stay put on the side. Danger didn't concern him. He wasn't afraid of physical altercations. He knew no fear. He only wanted to be _needed_ by _someone_. It didn't matter by whom.

With ready arms and shining eyes, he burst onto the other street, and rounded the corner.

He'd do anything to feel good about himself. Anything at all.

If only for a moment.

* * *

Thank god for Sundays.

The bakery was closed, most people stayed home, and Ludwig was more than happy to follow suit and spend the entire day on his couch, gazing up at the ceiling with lazy contentment as his dog licked his hand.

And it had been going according to plan too, until his dog had started whining, and a run to the kitchen's floor cabinet had revealed a decided lack of dog food. He had blamed it on the canine, of course, and had glowered down at him, saying decisively, 'You eat too much,' and when he had received only a tilted head of incomprehension and another whine, he had grabbed up his coat and set out, sighing.

Always something.

Nice outside, though. The day was cool and clouded, and he had felt hardly any anxiety when he had started outside, because he headed in the opposite direction of when he went to work, and the street punks rarely ventured deep into the European block. He could walk more loosely now, with his shoulders down and hands tucked into his pockets. And even though he would still have preferred a companion, Antonio was surely out gallivanting, so he would just have to make it quick. But there wasn't a lot of danger here, as long as he kept to himself.

He found the nearest store, only a few blocks from the Sunday market, where he always bought his chow, and he had just tossed the heavy bag over his shoulder and laid a five on the counter when he had the strange sensation that he was being watched.

Unnerving.

He stepped out, briskly, and he could swear that someone was following him. He _hated_ that feeling. And he was right about it, too. As always.

"Ludovico!"

The croon of his name from behind made him freeze in his tracks, and he could not help but shudder. He knew that voice, clear as day, and sure enough, as though from thin air, there was Felicia at his side, saddling up and sliding her smooth hand into his loose one with a smile.

For a second, he was too stunned to move, because he had assumed that she had taken the _hint_.

" _Ludovico_ ," she began, chidingly, "You don't ever come to see me anymore!"

Had he not explained to her exactly _why_ they could no longer meet?

'Yeah, Felicia, I love you to death, god knows, but your brother shoved a gun in my head, so maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore.'

Okay. To be fair, he hadn't really explained it at all; he had just started avoiding her one day, and had hoped she would understand why. Apparently not.

Oh. Shit.

His first coherent thought.

They stood there in silence for a moment, and he felt a little dumb, dressed in clothes that were a little too big and standing there with a huge bag of dog food over his shoulder, probably looking more than a little shoddy when Felicia was so pretty.

Shoddiness aside, she squeezed his hand and bounced up on her toes, and he came back to earth with a dumb, "H-hi!"

She broke into that dazzling beam he was ridiculously fond of.

"Hi!"

He was a bit dazed by the sight of her, as he usually was. She was dressed in her best, hair perfectly styled, nails neat and trimmed, putting on her best pout, and he could feel his resolve wavering already. Not good. He wouldn't last long, not under _that_ look. Never did.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to smile at her, even though she was beautiful, and even though she was running her index and middle finger up his arm in such a pleasant manner, he couldn't seem to keep his eyes on her. Damn. He found himself taking slow steps forward, looking over either shoulder apprehensively, and the anxious shuffling of the bag on his shoulder was not because of Felicia's playful fingers, nor was the nervousness in the pit of his stomach because of her brushes.

"Ludovico! I _miss_ you! I know you said you were busy now, but I miss you so much I can't stand it! I hate not being able to see you."

His heart raced so because wherever Felicia was...

"Will you spend the day with me? Just today?"

...Luna Lovi was not far behind.

" _Please_?"

She gave him an enthusiastic tug, and when he stumbled forward it was her hands that reached out and steadied him, and she looked so _happy_. Just to see him? No one was ever really happy to see him. Just her, and Antonio.

His common sense and ego were suddenly at war, and when they reached his house, he had time only to set the bag down inside before she had tugged him back out. He hadn't intended to let her have her way, but she was stubborn, and he couldn't ever change her mind about anything. It was kind of like talking to a rock.

...a really, really pretty rock.

A _really_ pretty rock.

A really pretty rock that loved him and that he loved in return, because only Ludwig would end up having his favorite person be an actual rock.

Well. He pricked up his ears, looked both ways, and when he did not see or hear Lovino, he heaved a defeated sigh, foundering effectively under her big, brown eyes. He loved her, did he ever, and it was as painful for him to be away from her as it apparently was for her to be away from him. Antonio was his best friend, but, in different ways, so was she. In many ways, she meant more to him than anyone else did, even Antonio. She could offer him certain comforts that Antonio just couldn't.

"Oh, alright."

"Alright!" she chirped, and clung to his arm, and as she nuzzled her face in the fabric of his shirt, he dropped his guard. Hard not to, when she made him feel so safe. She was pretty and friendly and touchy, and it felt good to be have someone holding him so affectionately. Her hands were soft and gentle, a pleasant change from the hands he was far too used to, and he couldn't help but blush when she reached up and ran her palm down his jaw line tenderly.

Always blushed, too, even after years. She did him in, as always.

"Ludovico, you're so handsome! I swear, being away from you for just a few days always reminds me. You're the best looking guy in this whole city, I think!"

And, as always, Ludwig ducked his head, face on fire, and slumped under her palms.

Oh, god, how he had missed her. Missed those words, missed those hands. Missed that voice, that sense of affection. Missed the sensation of being loved, no matter what. Being adored. Missed the feeling of having someone care about him, no matter how insignificant it may have seemed. No one had ever treated him like she did, except for his mother.

She was beautiful, in every sense of the word.

Shame that she brought such bad things behind her. Kinda wished that Luna Lovi would ship out and move to another state, so that Ludwig could walk down the street with Felicia and hold her hand without worrying about whether or not he was going to be shot.

"Come on, walk with me!"

Without waiting for a response, she took his hand, and began to pull him down the street. Couldn't even enjoy it, because he was too busy trying to pretend that he couldn't already feel Lovino's gun pressing into his head.

A shudder.

They passed shops and restaurants, and she never let go of his hand even for a second, and at every street she popped up on her toes and kissed his cheek fondly as they waited for the crosswalk light to change. He ducked his head in mortification, and she smiled.

Couldn't figure out, though, why she had chosen him. Why she had honed in on him. Why she loved being around him, when he had nothing to offer. Why she loved him, when he couldn't love himself. Why she wasn't ashamed to be _seen_ with him. He couldn't even look at himself in the mirror. She was so pretty, so confident, so friendly and put together. Why had she chosen him?

He was grateful, whatever her reason had been.

She could sense his thoughts, perhaps, and suddenly she had leaned her head against his arm, and said, sincerely, "I wish you would speak more, Ludovico. I love your voice. It's as sweet as you are."

He shifted, awkwardly, feeling another horrible burn slowly creep over his face.

Suddenly, the reason didn't even matter; as long as she was around.

Loved her.

Flitty as she was, though, sometimes it was hard to keep her attention focused on one thing, and before long he was leading her, rather than the other way around. A change of the light, the heels of her shoes clicking on the sidewalk, and with every step, Ludwig felt a little better. He looked over sometimes, feeling a burst of adoration in his chest, and he wished that he could give her what she wanted. That he could be a little more confident. That he could talk more, for her. Do more. That he could somehow make her as happy as he made him.

How could he? Didn't even know where to start. Didn't know a damn thing about women, and knew even less about trying to make one happy. Didn't know how to offer her friendship as she offered it to him.

Sure did owe her, though.

At every shop they passed, she would turn her head and gawk through the window at the items, 'ooh'ing and 'ahh'ing enthusiastically, as she always did, twirling her skirt. She loved bright things, which was no surprise, given her personality. (Did make him start thinking again, though, about why she had chosen him, because he was dull as could be.)

He wondered, absurdly, if he was expected to stop at any point and buy her anything. Flowers or something?

What to do. Damn! Where was Antonio when he needed him?

"Ludovico," she suddenly crooned, "let's go see a movie! Would you like that? To see a movie with me?" She reached up and tugged his collar playfully, pulling him down to her height, and rubbed her nose against his. "Would you? I miss you so much."

Yes, please.

Time with her was time well spent.

He opened his mouth, and had nearly said, 'Sure!' when there was suddenly another hand on his collar, but it wasn't Felicia's, and it wasn't soft and gentle, and with one mighty pull he had been broken out of her hands. He staggered back, barely catching himself, and when he finally regained his balance, he nearly bowed his head and groaned.

Luna Lovi.

_Great_. Wonderful. Just what he needed. Thank you, fate. This was exactly what he had been wishing for. Thanks.

Luna Lovi stood there, stocky and gruff as he was, so angry that he was literally bristling (the thick hairs on his arms were stuck up), eyes wide and mouth open, and for a moment, Ludwig could only gawk back at him without absolute horror. Oh, man, _really_? Couldn't catch a break, no matter where he went. Luna Lovi looked like he was about to blow a gasket any second, and the expression on his face was clearly disbelief. That Ludwig had _dared_ to disobey his order to stay away from his sister.

A thick silence, as they stared at each other.

The storm eventually burst, and Lovino started ranting.

"You _—_ You _bas_ _tard_!" the irate maniac finally shrieked, and he came forward, reaching out and shoving Ludwig back with all of his might. Felicia came forward, too, and grabbed handfuls of her brother's shirt in a vain attempt to keep him back.

She was strong, but Lovino was stronger. But, damn. Felicia sure could be scary when she was screaming, and was she ever now, shrieking at her crazy brother so hard in Italian that she very well could have lost her voice. Luna Lovi screamed right back, but didn't push her. Knew better than that.

They screeched at each other, and Ludwig tried to edge backwards carefully.

He was too slow.

Lovino broke free of his sister, and stalked forward again, and for a second Ludwig was too stunned to do anything except raise his hands in the air as if to say, ridiculously, 'Hey, buddy, she came after _me_!'

Wasn't even like that.

Lovino was not sold, and probably wouldn't have cared. Another great shove backwards by those huge hands, and all Ludwig could do was to stare with wide eyes and try to keep calm, reluctant to shove back if only for Felicia's sake, and god, he was so _sick_ of fighting. Sick of it. Couldn't ever escape it, and hadn't ever wanted it. Hated it.

So, yeah, keep at it, Lovino! Keep at it. He wouldn't raise his hand, no matter how hard Lovino pushed him.

Not with _her_ there. Felicia expected more of him.

"I told you to stay away from her!"

" _Lovino_! _No_!"

Ignore, like everything else.

One more shove, and then the world stopped short :

Luna Lovi pulled out a gun.

Oh, dammit. Here he was again. Antonio was not here to intervene, though, not this time, and his refusal to stick up for himself might land him in a bad way. The atmosphere changed quickly, and, feeling his breath leave him, Ludwig did the only thing he could do; he turned on his heel and stalked off down the street in a meager attempt to appease the aptly named Italian. Because Lovino truly was, in every sense of the word, a lunatic.

He conceded defeat, and fled, quick as he could.

Apparently, his offering wasn't enough, because still Lovino came after him, screeching every obscenity known to man, and with each cry he brought down the butt of his gun on Ludwig's back.

Little bastard—

Nope.

He ground his teeth at the dull ache, pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, but made no move. Just keep walking. Didn't turn around, and he didn't stop walking, even as Felicia raised holy hell behind them as she tried to grab her brother by his shirt and keep him at bay. Lovino would not be held back, not by her. Not by anyone. Not when his honor was threatened.

...by some guy he didn't even know who wasn't even messin' his sister and wasn't even following her around, and _damn_.

A particularly vicious blow made him wince.

"I knew you would still come after her!

Another sharp pain.

"Bastard! You goddamn son of a whore!"

Another jab of the gun's handle in his shoulder.

"If I ever see you near her again, I swear I'll kill you!"

Another blow, and that mouth kept on yapping.

Did he never relent? Felicia better find a way to call him off soon, or else he might have to take care of this himself, whether he wanted to or not. Had always wanted to punch Lovino in the nose, from the moment they met, and now suddenly seemed like a good time.

"Hear? Hear? I'll kill you! She's too good for you! Leave her—"

Another...

An odd shuffle.

...nothing, actually.

Luna Lovi gave a sudden, strangled sound of protest, cursed in Italian, and the blow that Ludwig had expected did not come.

Just silence.

For a breathless moment Ludwig found himself coming to a halt, if only from curiosity. From behind, he could hear noises; someone struggling, the sounds of a scuffle, and then a strangely familiar voice screeched, "What the _hell_ are ya' _doin'_? Give me that!"

Lovino began to curse and spit in a strange mixture of English and Italian, so mad that he apparently couldn't even choose one language anymore, and then there was a slap, and Lovino's voice was suddenly farther away, Felicia's too, and then there was nothing more.

Huh.

After a second of calm, and quiet, there was suddenly a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, are you alright, man?"

And somehow, that innocent question was worse than any oath Luna Lovi could utter. Because Ludwig _knew_ that voice. Hit him worse than the gun had.

Oh, _no._ No. Couldn't be. He shuddered, certain that he was hearing things, had to be hearing things, and after a deep inhale to gather himself, he braced his feet and twisted halfway around. His heart sank.

Oh _no_. It _was_ him. Jones. Had to be _him_. Standing in the street, hair tousled and jacket wrinkled from his impromptu wrestling match, he held Luna Lovi's gun within his hand, and behind his glasses his eyes were wide and startled.

A moment of complete silence, and neither of them moved, the world stopping around them in a whirlwind of complete and utter disbelief. The crowd passed by as though a blur. The sound of the city was nothing more than a garbled, incomprehensible mess, and Ludwig felt more like he had just stepped into a dead zone rather than a bustling city.

Jones' hand was warm and firm on his shoulder, and Ludwig realized, absurdly, that they were almost the same height, himself a little taller, and from the churning in Jones' eyes, it was obvious that something exceedingly profound had occurred.

Time froze.

Why, oh why, did it have to be _him_?

Jones' eyes were boring painfully into his own.

Then someone bumped into them, as they were blocking the sidewalk, and everything sped back up with dizzying force.

Felt sick.

They each _realized_ exactly who it was that stood before them, and it was Jones who reacted first, and he drew his hand back as though burned, managing to sputter, "Y- _you_!"

Ludwig only narrowed his eyes and straightened his coat with unsteady hands, sparing himself no time for petty conversation. What would he say? _'Thanks_?' Yeah, right.

But even so, his eyes lingered on the gun that Jones held in his hand, and it was only his instilled politeness that kept him stuck in place, and he watched as Jones lifted his coat and tucked the gun into his waistline.

Ah, hell.

"Man," Jones grumbled to himself, shaking his head, "That was kinda close. Thought he was gonna shoot ya."

Ludwig just stood there, steadily slumping, and felt defeated, more than anything. Couldn't even think, let alone speak.

When Ludwig was silent, Jones glanced up at him and straightened his glasses, brow low as if in thought.

It unnerved Ludwig, being so close to his nemesis, and in such a bad position (that of gratitude), but it was even worse that he couldn't really see any danger or aggression on Jones in that moment. No reason to fear. No reason to panic. That was worse. Then, at least, he could have justified turning and walking off. He could have had an excuse to flee.

Couldn't find anything.

Jones just stood there, shoulders slouched and brow creased, slumped as much as Ludwig was, and then he spoke again, his voice so low and deep that Ludwig could barely hear it over the crowd. Barely a whisper.

A question :

"Why don't you ever fight back, huh? I don't get it. Why do you always just walk away? Don't you get mad?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, lost his voice, and quickly turned his eyes to the ground.

What kind of question was _that_?

An exceedingly personal question to ask a man that you had never even said 'hello' to.

Anyway, he couldn't have answered that easily. There were many reasons he did not fight back. Certainly his own desire for peace was one. Another was because it was just easier to lay there, and get it over with. Or because fighting back would only make it worse. Or because he would probably be arrested, just because.

Because he could be deported, and he couldn't go back _there_.

But a completely honest answer would perhaps have been that he didn't fight back because some part of him thought that it was his duty to accept such treatment, because his countrymen had done such horrible things, even though it wasn't _his_ fault, and maybe the darker part of his mind thought that he deserved it in some way.

There was no way he could put such sentiments into words, even for Antonio or Felicia. Less so for Jones, and he only stared at the pavement, shoulders low and head aching.

Jones took a step forward, and opened his mouth, almost as though he were going to initiate some kind of weird greeting, and Ludwig's heart raced terribly in what was nothing less than panic, but then, suddenly, an interruption.

Another storm.

" _ALFRED_!" came a furious bellow from behind, and then something hard knocked him on the side of the head, enough to send dots of light dancing before his eyes. He reached up instinctively, infuriated and somewhat dazed, as a blur rushed by him, but his sharp words of caution died in his throat when he realized what was happening.

Shock. Absolute disbelief.

A clamminess came over him, because it had been Jones' old man that blown past him like a hurricane, sucker-punching him as he went, and now he was grabbing Jones' collar and shaking him violently for all to see. In front of everyone.

No shame.

Ludwig could only stare at them with a horrified numbness, and shrank back when Jones' father slapped his son's cheek and pointed in Ludwig's direction, screaming in the most terrible voice he had ever heard.

"—leave you for a _second_! If I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have fuckin' believed it! I don't _ever_ want to see you _talking_ to this kike-killer again! Do you hear me? No son of _MINE_ —"

A pang.

"Dad, I was just—"

" _Embarrassing_ me in front of everyone! What's _wrong_ with you? Boy, you're gonna get a beating like you've never known, I swear you that!"

" _Dad_!"

That man terrified him.

Everyone was staring in embarrassment, alright, but for once it was Ludwig who stood in the crowd and watched as Jones' father twisted his fist in the collar of his son's jacket and then began to haul him off down the street, and he could hear them arguing as they went, although Jones' cries seemed more like halfhearted explanations and pleas. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he struggled to match his father's pace, and then he was all but being dragged, and people on the street turned away and walked on like nothing had happened.

Ludwig just stood there, long after they were out of sight. Might not have been breathing. _Surreal_ , being on the other end for once. Not entirely unpleasant. Okay, maybe that was a little cold. Certainly deserved, though.

The crowd vanished, when there was nothing interesting left to see.

Ludwig stood frozen in place, furrowing his brow as he rubbed absently at the bump on his head, and for the first time, his hatred for Jones was mingled with something else that he could not quite place. Something that felt oddly like pity, and he realized that Jones' black eye had not come from a street fight, but from his own sire.

Ha.

He quickly pushed that pity aside, and the more he thought about, it seemed more like poetic justice at its best. Maybe the brat was finally getting a taste of his own medicine. Kind of _nice_ , actually, to be the one watching as Jones was the one assaulted for all the world to see. To be the one standing off to the side. To be the one who didn't intervene.

But. Well. Maybe...

Damn, he didn't know exactly _what_ it was that was running through his mind. It was too disjointed to grasp a hold of, too wispy to clench, and he could only stare in their wake, silently. Felt uncomfortable, suddenly. A little disconcerted. Not something he had ever imagined he'd see. Kinda wished he hadn't. For one reason or another.

Well. Life went on. Same old.

Then he turned on his heel and ambled off, eyes firmly on the pavement as he walked. His head hurt.

Jones.

Well, now what? Kinda owed the jerk, didn't he? Or did he? Jones was still his mortal enemy. Nothing had changed with this outburst. Even _if_ Jones had intervened in Lovino's path. But that had just been an accident, hadn't it? Jones hadn't realized that it was just the _Fritz_ that he was rescuing, had he?

No.

So what, if he had lingered afterwards? Didn't mean anything. Accident.

_'Why don't you ever fight back?'_

He scoffed to himself, mind racing, and if ever the situation arose for Jones to ask him that question again, he knew now what he would respond with :

_'Why don't_ you _?'_

Dumb Jones.

Nothing changed. Never did.


	5. Masquerade Waltz

**Chapter 5**

**Masquerade Waltz**

Lethargy.

Aching.

His head hurt like hell. Ribs on fire and when he walked, his leg threatened to give out on him. Pulled a muscle, maybe. But, for it all, it could be worse. He'd had worse.

A nice day out. Windy.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," was the cool response.

"I'm glad."

Alfred had said, 'Fine'.

A lie, if ever he had told one.

In actuality, he felt pretty damn _shitty_ , and as he crawled out of his window and into the pale afternoon sun, Matthew waiting down below, Alfred could not help but wince. Because _damn_ , was he sore, even after a week, and every movement was a dull, throbbing ache. His black eye hadn't even had time to heal before it had been renewed. His chest hurt. His stomach hurt.

Despite it all, though, it was a pretty day, mild and cool, and Matthew's face always made him feel a little better. Besides, he really _had_ had worse. The old man had done him in worse than this, when he had been younger.

Not so bad. Just a few bruises that would heal as quickly as they were made.

What hurt the worst, maybe, was just how disappointed his old man had been at him. That stung, more than he would have liked. Not the old man's feelings, certainly not, but rather his own. Feeling like he'd done something wrong. Couldn't stand doubting himself, for any moment of time.

He'd been feeling so damn confused, lately. He knew whose fault it was, too.

"Come on," Matthew said, in that soft, calm voice that Alfred enjoyed in quieter moments, "Let's get something to eat."

His feet hit the ground, and Matthew reached out to touch his arm. He brushed it off. He was fine. Couldn't stand to be pitied.

"Good deal," Alfred said, as soon as he gathered up his bearings, and when he took the first step forward, he forced him to step straight and smooth even as his leg wanted to cramp up and force him into a limp. He was too proud to limp, and ignored the pain with surprising skill as he walked down the street, Mathew firmly at his side.

Small talk. Chatter.

As they rounded the block, Alfred looked back over his shoulder. Just in case.

His father was watching television, no doubt, and Alfred was _supposed_ to be on lock-down. Not the first time. Not that the old man would ever know if he snuck out of his window; hell, he'd been doin' that for years. In all honesty, Alfred didn't really think that his father really cared whether or not he was still in his room, just as long as he wasn't being a bother. That was alright with him, too, because he didn't much feel like looking at the old son of a bitch right now anyway.

He'd rather just be alone.

But Matthew was alright.

A few blocks later, when fighting off the urge to limp was getting to be a pain, they came up to the front of a tiny diner that he and his old man had frequented in days past. Good memories. Days when his father had still been a hero. Times that were slipping away.

Every day, he felt himself slipping away from the old man, and felt ever the more agitated.

Couldn't say he really wanted to be here too much. Didn't wanna ruin anything for Matthew, though. Following Matthew's lead, he stepped through the door, into the bubbly atmosphere and the bright colors, and threw himself down into a booth without a word. It was almost a little too cheery in here to suit his mood.

Couldn't take his mind off of that man. Always getting him into trouble.

Matthew settled in across from him, and as the waitress brought them their sodas, Matthew tried to smile. Tried to, anyway, but didn't seem to get very far along in the fakery before he dropped it altogether.

More small talk.

"So. You wanna go walkin' in the park today?"

His leg hurt.

"Not really."

Matthew's chin fell a bit, even as he continued to stare at Alfred.

"Oh, well. Maybe next time."

A silence, and Alfred turned his eyes away from Matthew, because the gaze was rather more intent than he was comfortable with at the moment, and Alfred knew goddamn well what Matthew was thinking and what he was eventually going to say.

It didn't take too long, either.

"Alfred."

He shifted in the booth at the sound of his name, and turned his gaze to the window to watch people pass.

Didn't wanna engage in this conversation, but knew it was going to happen eventually. May as well get it over with. So, Alfred grunted, lowly, "What?"

A hesitation.

"You gotta be more careful, Alfred," Matthew whispered, and it was with a strangely heartwarming concern (despite this awkward conversation) that he leaned across the table and put his hand on the top of Alfred's, adding, "I mean, I think you were really brave and all, but sometimes bravery can be _really_ close to stupidity, and—"

"It wasn't _stupidity_ ," he threw back, snatching his hand out from under Matthew's and leaning back into the booth as his head started pounding all over again.

He did _not_ want to have this talk, not now, not as sore as he was. With that damn man's eyes still boring into him even though they weren't anyway near each other. Just wanted to hate that man and carry on his way. Had to find a way to get around all of this.

Matthew was still, waiting, and Alfred was quick to add, "It was just shitty luck, is all. How could _I_ have known? How the hell was _I_ supposed to know it was the goddamn Kraut? Christ! You know, if I had just paid more attention, I woulda seen him, and there wouldn't be any problems to begin with. Don't even know how I _missed_ it. I shoulda known it was _him_."

With that, irritated and cranky, he closed his eyes, and tried very hard to get his head to stop pounding behind his eyes. But it wouldn't stop, and neither did Matthew, for that matter.

He just wanted to go to sleep.

A stern hiss from across the table, and it was clear by then that Matthew was just as cranky suddenly.

"Alfred, don't call him that. Why do you always have call 'em that?"

The irritation intensified, and not even the blinding red tables and paint could salvage his mood. Going down, down, down.

For a second, Alfred had almost thought, 'call him what?' He was so used to it, so used to his father's jargon, that he really didn't even notice it anymore. The same way he called Matthew an ice-back without thought.

People got so bent up over names and words. Hardly seemed like an issue now, when so many other things were going on.

Still, though, he didn't really know why he was so agitated when he muttered, "Oh, get off it, Matt, he's just a goddamn Fritz, and I'm sick of gettin' my ass beat because of him."

Matthew had been long since frowning in a rather foul way, gentle Matthew, and he griped back, "It's not his fault, Alfred. You always blame it on him. You don't even _know_ that guy. It's not his fault."

"Like hell it isn't."

His words were much more stern and sure than he himself felt.

Yeah, sure, it was the German's fault that he had gotten a beating, but, honestly, when Alfred really stopped to think about, he couldn't have said for sure that he would have acted any differently. Had he recognized that guy, Alfred couldn't say that he would have stood still. Probably still woulda jumped in because, in the end, that was the right thing to do.

And there was the problem; the right thing to do.

When it came to the German, there were two very different 'rights', depending on who Alfred might have asked.

Take Matthew, for instance, in comparison to the old man. Had the same man been put in front of the both of them and Alfred had asked, 'Alright! Here he is; what the hell do I do? What should I do?', then he would have received two contrasting answers.

His old man would have said, 'Get the hell away from that thing.'

Matthew would have said, 'Well, the polite thing to do would be to at least ask him his name.'

And that was confusing.

He couldn't seem to figure out exactly which side he was standing on anymore. Matthew thought he was brave for intervening on the German's behalf; his father had beaten him senseless because of it.

If the 'right' thing were based on passion alone, then his father certainly won out, alright, because he was extremely fervent about his hatred, and always had been. Matthew's side seemed so much more subdued, so much calmer, and, in a way, it somehow seemed more appealing to Alfred every damn day, every day that the old man drifted further from his sentiments.

His father's side had always been 'right', and yet somehow, every time he thought about it more, it became a little harder to grasp it.

Matthew's 'right' felt less frustrating, felt like less given effort.

Hard, to keep on hating when it was so tiring.

Still, though, it was a little much to let go of all at once, wasn't it? An entire lifetime of training and lessons, tossed away just because that guy had needed help and Alfred had stepped up without knowing it. Couldn't shake it off so easily. Couldn't really pick apart what thoughts in his head were his and which ones were the old man's.

And his pride wouldn't let him submit to Matthew's whim quite that quickly.

Too proud to ever say, 'I was wrong.'

The German was something that he wasn't sure he could really stand to be wrong on, because if he was, if he always had been, then that would have killed off a part of his self-confidence, if he even had any to begin with.

Oh, man. Couldn't figure out exactly what to blame on that man and why.

The rational half of Alfred was quite aware that it _wasn_ ' _t_ the German's fault he had had the misfortune to be born a German, or that his country was just... _evil_. No one could decide where and to whom they were born, could they? And that was nobody's fault. Not even his. That was one thing that Alfred couldn't have ever really faulted him for, for being German. You were who you were, and that was that.

The selfish half of Alfred was also aware that it was easier to blame the German for several other things, however. Easy to blame him for the conflicted emotions. Easy to blame him for the nagging doubts about himself and the old man. Easy to blame him for these bruises. Easy to blame him for always dragging up that latent memory.

It was easier to blame others. Didn't feel as bad.

Somehow, though, no matter how he looked at, he still felt confused, and he still felt shitty. Just wished that guy would go _away_ , and hopefully take all of that confusion with him.

Always after him.

Yet, for it all, Alfred couldn't really sit there and say to himself that he would have known that the German was a German if he hadn't been familiar with him already. How strange. He couldn't pick them out like his father could, and he had always thought that maybe there was something wrong with him for that. Years and years, and he still couldn't figure it out like his father or his friends could.

That day, the German had been just another man, and Alfred hadn't sensed anything different about him until he had turned around. Hadn't felt different. Hadn't looked different or smelled different.

When he had stood there frozen in the street, in that awful moment of timelessness, and the German had met his eyes, he had not felt that hate that he had expected. His father had described so often looking into a German's eyes, from across the barrels of rifles, and had told of such _hate_. He hadn't felt that, not even close. Just a little awkwardness.

Maybe that was the worst part. That he could hate and blame the German from afar, but couldn't ever really summon any of that sentiment when they were face to face.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

Matthew, of all people, should have understood _better_ how he felt, even if Alfred couldn't articulate it, and he should have shown a little empathy. But Matthew only ever looked so disappointed in him.

He hated that look.

"What do you want me to do?" Alfred finally asked, over the tense silence. "Huh? Tell me. What do you want me to do about it?"

Matthew, after a second, only shook his head, and seemed exasperated more than anything else, as if the answer were quite obvious but Alfred was being too stubborn to say it.

That wasn't fair, either, because he really could have used an answer. He really wished that someone could have told him which way to go and why. What could he do? What did he do? He didn't know what to _do_.

Finally, Matthew looked back up, and said, carefully, "Alfred, I know he's your dad and all, but I know that you don't really believe everything he's _told_ you. I mean, you don't really _think_ like that do you?"

Alfred sat still, and didn't answer.

Honestly? He didn't know what he thought anymore, except perhaps that he had liked life much better when things had been simpler. Things hadn't been so confusing when he had been younger.

Matthew's brow just fell lower and lower at Alfred's silence, until he finally grumbled, "I wish you'd stand up to him."

Ha! Easier said than done, and what did Matthew know about it anyway?

"Oh, like _you_ do?" was his callous retort, and Matthew lowered his eyes to the table with narrowed eyes of hurt.

Maybe that wasn't fair either, because it wasn't Matthew's job to stand up to Alfred's father, not his problem, not his responsibility. But it was still a little satisfying, Matthew's hurt look. So that he wouldn't be the only one feeling that way. He just wanted somebody to _understand_. Just wished Matthew understood him a little better.

The satisfaction of Matthew's unease dissipated, and Alfred leaned forward a bit.

"But, hey," he finally said, as he tried to get Matthew's attention, "Man, does it really matter so much? It's already all done, isn't it? Let's just forget it. I mean, you know I'm not— Well. _You_ know I'm—I'm not a bad guy, right?"

He expected a quick, 'Of course!'

Matthew was his best friend.

And so it hurt, when Matthew just sat there, slouched in that booth, hands in his lap, and eyes on the table. Hurt, that Matthew really seemed to be thinking about it, thinking about what to say.

"Right?" he pressed, at that awful silence.

Matthew hesitated, for the second time, and Alfred's heart sank into his stomach when the man he called 'best friend' looked around evasively, and then whispered, almost guiltily, "Oh, Alfred. I don't know anymore. I don't know."

Hurt.

Matthew should have _understood_.

Stunned and feeling more awful than he had in so long, Alfred could only sit there and glower at the table when Matthew stood up, tossing money down and walking out as fast as he could, throwing only a quick 'See ya later' over his shoulder as he went.

Alone and feeling for all the world as though he were about to burst into tears, Alfred leaned back, and buried his face his hands.

His old man had been his _hero_. Why couldn't Matthew understand how _hard_ that illusion was to let go of? His father was really all he'd ever known. The way it had felt, once upon a time, to admire someone that much, was so hard to let go of. Just wanted everything to be the way it had been.

Losing track of time and place in a fog of frustration and helplessness, he was barely aware that he had ambled out of the diner, hands tucked in his pockets and walking so slowly that the elderly women overtook him, staring off into space.

Misery, above all else.

What was he supposed to do?

He could not please his father, could not please Matthew, and as long as he was loyal to one, the other would be resentful. And that was just _them_! Toss the German in, and then the rest of the fuckin' world, and everything only got worse. Everyone expected so much of him, and such different things.

He walked on. Blocks passed.

Maybe...

Ah, hell. Maybe he was spending so much time worrying about what _they_ wanted that he didn't take enough time to think about what _he_ wanted. If only he could get away. Go somewhere. Clear his head. Find a calm space.

A thought came then, out of nowhere, and struck him.

Wait. No, wait. If only the _German_ would go away. Hey, yeah. That sounded more feasible. If the German would just go away, Alfred could find a little bit of peace, for once. Pack up and leave, and make Alfred's life so much easier.

The excitement dulled as soon as it had come.

Yeah, right. That stubborn bastard? No way. That man wouldn't ever leave, from the looks of it, and would be even less keen to do so if leaving would have made Alfred happy. How could Alfred have possibly convinced him to get out of town? If five years of merciless beatings hadn't run him off, then nothing would.

How could he even _ask_ him? How did someone even start that kind of conversation? Show up at his doorstep and knock and say, 'Hey, if I buy you a train ticket will you leave?', or leave a note at his door? Pay him? Beg? What did Alfred have to do to get rid of that man? He'd try just about anything, because he was so sick of being beaten. More than that, he was sick of _beating_. Couldn't stand it, couldn't stand those altercations, and every time he engaged in it he felt further and further away from himself.

Was that really who he was? He didn't want to hurt anyone.

He walked on, lost in his thoughts, and maybe heaven was smiling on him because an opportunity presented itself in a strange way; ahead of him he could hear familiar commotion (he knew those voices and those giggles—what miserable _friends_!) and he just knew that the German couldn't be far off with laughter like that, and was surely being tormented.

Shouts in the street. Jeers and taunts.

Some part of him wanted to turn tail and go in the opposite direction, but here was possibly the answer to his problem. This could prove an opportunity to get in his two cents. If he could get the pale-haired German alone. Get him away from the others. He could try to force him out. Try to talk some sense into that odd son of a bitch. Good riddance.

Right? Right.

He perked up his eyes and ears and quickened his pace, scouring the alleys as he tried to pinpoint the ruckus, and sure enough, around the corner and tucked back into a dirty crevasse, there they all were. As expected. His 'friends' and the German, clashing as they so frequently did, but this time the dog was there too, barking and snarling, held at bay only by a firm grip on its collar. But not by its owner.

The wind picked up a little.

The German's chin was as high in the air as it ever was, defiant as always. Stubborn.

Alfred leapt into action after a swallow and a brace of his shoulders, and lunged into shadow.

"Hey guys!"

They all turned to look, and for a moment, he found his foot freezing up in the air. He didn't _want_ to jump into the middle of this fray, hell no he didn't. Didn't want to face that guy again, after all of it. Didn't want to be anywhere near him, didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to, but had to. It was necessary.

The last thing he ever wanted was to see this man again.

In a flash, the German's pale, piercing eyes fell onto his own, and Alfred found himself stuck again, this time under the gaze that had so often haunted him.

Damn. He hesitated.

But it was far too late to second-guess; he'd already drawn attention to himself.

"Hey, Jones! Long time no see!"

"Wonderin' when you'd come around!"

Too late.

He pushed forward, assuming his role as alpha. Even if he didn't feel much like a leader. They never woulda noticed, anyway, dumb as they were, and they took their spots without thought. When he fell into the middle of them, they reached out to punch his arm with eager friendliness, and he waved off their curious questions about his eye with a breezy hand. They thought that being beat by his old man made him all the cooler, and that was fine, as long as he had clout. Whatever worked.

The German, as usual, did not show him any admiration and seemed quite unimpressed with his bruises, staring at him silently with a furrowed brow and a clenched jaw.

A fuzzy memory of standing before this man, his hand upon his shoulder. It had only been a few days. Felt like forever. Such a strange moment.

This was how they were used to standing in front of each other, and Alfred realized then that the other day, whatever else could be said about it, suddenly seemed a hell of a lot better.

"Joinin' us, Jones?" one of them asked, and Alfred tried to appear braver than he really felt by stepping forward and breaking their grip on the German, taking up his arm with an iron grip and pulling him aside.

The strange feel of the German's shirt beneath his palm, and under, muscle.

Just a man.

"Get lost," Alfred suddenly said to them, and they fell back in awe when he added, "I've got a date with this one."

He pointed to his eye, and they understood. Retribution. So easy.

"Tear him up," they chortled, and Alfred looked around.

At the end of the alley was the busted backdoor to an abandoned building, once sealed up but now free to enter by years of carelessness. Dark. Dusty. Isolated. _Perfect_. That was his spot. He could get the German in there, pretend like he was beating the holy hell out of him, and all the while he was really trying to lay down a different law:

Get outta town.

Beside of him, the German was starting to struggle against him, yanking and pulling to get away, almost breaking free at one point, and Alfred decided that time was a factor. Tightening his grip, he started tugging the blond back towards the end of the alley, and was met with surprisingly little resistance. He'd expected a fight. There was none. As if the German was either too tired or too damn resigned to even bother. He hadn't ever fought back. Why start now?

Alfred could see, though, that the German hated _him_ more than any of the others. He could see it, just in his eyes, just in the way he looked at him, and that look alone started shaking his nerve. Better to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

When the door was close, the German suddenly dug his heels into the ground, grinding them to a halt. When Alfred looked back in agitation, he could see that the German had turned back to stare at his dog.

Oh, right. Dumb dog.

A whine from the canine made him pause too, and, as an afterthought, he yelled over his shoulder, as he resumed yanking the stubborn German into the dusty building, "Don't touch that dog!"

They shrugged, and stared after him, one of them holding the dog's collar high up in his hand to prevent it from whirling around and biting. Not so friendly anymore. It struggled against them, desperate to follow its owner, but to no avail. They didn't seem to be that interested in the canine, though, and Alfred was confident that no harm would come to it.

It was that confidence that led him to go through the door and shove the German into the middle of the building, not as hard as he could but enough to state his seriousness. He shut the door behind him as the German stumbled and fell onto the concrete floor, and Alfred rushed forward quickly to pull him up to his feet by his collar and slam him back into the wall.

This was time for negotiation. Not pity. Anyway, the German would have just brushed it off, like he did everything else, had Alfred helped him up.

They stood there, Alfred's hands entangled in the fabric of the German's thin shirt. A little too thin for the chilly fall air. Cold must not have bothered him that much, or maybe he just didn't really care about anything.

How strange. Being that close, like this, after all of these years.

The first time that Alfred had ever been close enough to see the little flecks of gold towards the pupils of the German's sky-blue eyes, or the sharp shape of his nose. The pale eyelashes that were all but invisible from a distance. The dark circles under his eyes, contrasting against the nearly translucent shade of his skin. Platinum hair, yeah, but at the roots it was a shimmering shade of something closer to white, far paler than the tips. A rather random, light brown freckle on the side of his left jaw.

An odd thing to see, to notice, but there it was.

Made it harder, suddenly, to not just see him as a man, noticing those completely normal details. Harder not to think, 'what pretty eyes' or 'what a handsome nose'. He wasn't supposed to think things like that about a German. Should have seen bad things only. He could have looked at Matthew and easily said, 'Your hair looks nice today.' Couldn't have ever said anything like that to a German. He was supposed to look at this man and see nothing but hate.

Couldn't, just couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. And, boy, had he ever tried.

The German stayed still there beneath his hands, pressed back into the wall, and didn't say a word. If looks coulda killed, though, Alfred would have long since died a painful death. Aside from trying to murder him with the eyes, the German really didn't do much. Just stared at him, and seemed somehow defiant and defeated. Couldn't figure that out, and didn't care to.

Time to get to it.

Alfred braced his feet, tightened his grip so much that the German might have found it difficult to breath, and he found his voice.

"Don't come here anymore," were his first words, and for a moment the German only gawked at him, in what could have been disbelief.

Well, that didn't surprise him either. They'd never _spoken_. Not like this. The German had been expecting a punch, not a sentence.

Alfred carried on before the stupefied man could start struggling or bitching, and kept on looking over his shoulders, even then. Terror, that someone would see him like that.

"We gotta do somethin' about this, don't we? I'm sick of it, you're sick of it. So. Let's figure somethin' out, alright? Just don't come on this side of town anymore. You go on the other side of town, we stay on this side of town. Sound good?"

Alfred had been so _sure_ that there would have been an immediate agreement to this suggestion—for god's sake why _not_?—but the German still didn't say a word, not a word.

A little unnerving. He hated it when that man stared at him like _that_. Just like back then.

"Are you hearin' me or what? Are you gonna stay away?"

A silence.

And then, amazing, unbelievably, foolishly, the German had the _nerve_ to shake his head. He shook his head.

Beyond anything, Alfred was stunned.

_What_? What part of this was he not understanding?

" _Listen_ ," he hissed, and now he pressed the stubborn son of a bitch back into the wall as hard as he could with intention to cause pain, "Don't come around here anymore! Anything you need you can get out on _your_ half of town. You can go to Bryant park instead of Central. Take the other streets. I don't wanna see you around here again! Do you get it or what? What's hard about this, huh? Make it easier on the both of us!"

He expected a nod of submission, a nasty retort, or even a struggle against him, but the German only continued to stare at him silently through eyes so narrow they were barely slits, chin low and shoulders squared. Alfred steadily felt his aggravation giving way to something more like anxiety as he was stared down by those icy eyes that always seemed to get the better of him. Every time. Couldn't hold that gaze, no matter how he tried. Bested.

Still, twitching gaze or no, Alfred kept on his mask of arrogant dominance, and gave the German a good, firm shake, if only to try and knock some sense into him.

"Get it? From now on, this is _my_ half of town, alright? Go somewhere else!"

Another nerve-wracking moment of unbreakable silence, and then the German's low chin lifted up, his eyes somehow narrowed all the further even as his brow lifted, and he finally spoke.

He spoke.

Alfred almost couldn't believe it, after all that glaring. The second time in his life now that Alfred had heard that man's voice. That strange, rumbling baritone that wasn't ever quite as warm or smooth as it could have been had effort been given. His voice was so deep and low that Alfred struggled to hear it over the ruckus of the streets outside.

A burst of thunder.

" _Your_ half? You think you own everything, don't you? How is this your half? Where should I go to work? Where should I go to pay my bills? Where should I go if I get sick?"

Rare enough to hear the German speak, rarer still to get full, actual sentences. Another first. They'd never spoken directly, and that voice was somehow almost as overwhelming as those eyes were.

His accent was strong, thick, not completely incomprehensible but almost, and Alfred couldn't really help but feel that if he had been speaking to a friend, to someone he was fond of, the accent itself would have been rather charming. Another dumb, out of place thought, but it would have been useless to try and say that that man's voice wasn't appealing in itself.

Probably would have driven the girls crazy, anyway.

But it was somewhat intimidating now, as deep as his voice was and as agitated as he was, as much as he was making it obvious in stance alone that he _hated_ Alfred.

Seemed that even when the German was underneath him, Alfred felt as if he were the one being stomped on. Couldn't stand that look, those eyes, and he could feel himself starting to shift awkwardly under a particularly burning gaze.

Maybe the German really was made of ice.

Still, though, one thought was quite obvious, and Alfred hissed, "I don't care! I don't _care_ where you gotta go! I _don't_! I'm sick of getting into trouble because of you!" He spat the words more than spoke them, and gave the German another fierce shake to back up his anger. "I'm sick of it! I'm sick of _you_! If you would just _go away_ things would be easier for the both of us! Just—just go _away_!"

It was selfish and unreasonable and childish, but oh, _god_ , if the dumb son of a bitch would just move away or stay on the other side of town, everything would be so much _better_.

Didn't anyone in this entire fuckin' _world_ understand him?

"Go away. Don't come back here. Stay outta this side. I don't care where you go, but go somewhere else."

Go away.

Just wanted to go back in time and be happy again.

The German only scoffed, a sound that reverberated up his chest and into Alfred's hands, and he whispered, voice thin with veiled hatred, "Where should I go? Where do you want me to go? Will you put up the money for me to move? Would you find me a new job? Will you buy me new house? Ha; I won't go _anywhere_. I'm not scared of you. I won't run. _I'm_ not a _coward_."

Alfred would have been furious if the words hadn't shook him up. Coward. The word 'coward' had been strange for two reasons :

Firstly, the way the German pronounced it. It was very close to being completely incomprehensible, and it had taken Alfred's mind a moment to figure out what the hell he was even saying. Like the German had seen the word written once, but had never heard it pronounced aloud. Just a guess, maybe, of how it was supposed to be spoken.

Secondly, strange because the German was implying that _Alfred_ was a coward.

And that hurt, even if it was true. No one had ever called him that. Not ever. He hated that word, more than any other. Coward. The old man had been a hero, had gone to war, and Alfred had always hated the thought of cowards because of it. Maybe because being a coward was his worst fear. One that he felt came true far too often.

He was a coward. Always had been.

Had been, probably, since the very first day his father had walked back through that door.

But it hurt all the same to hear it, and even more to admit it.

Alfred released the German's collar, then, and watched as he collapsed down against the wall in obvious exhaustion, as if standing up for so long had just been too much work. Still, though, he made a very real effort to glare up at Alfred from above his folded knees, and Alfred only looked down at him, shaking his head as his chest burned, hands clenched at his sides.

Stupid, stubborn bastard.

It would have been easy, in that moment, to strike him for real. For the first time in his life, he could say that he might have really _wanted_ to punch that man.

He couldn't though—his blazing anger was quickly turning into apprehension and alarm, and it was with much less fervor that Alfred hissed, in exasperation, " _Look_ , sometimes you gotta let go of pride! Think about it! What are we supposed to do, huh? My dad, oh damn, my dad _hates_ you! And what can I do? He's my _dad_! Christ, why don't you just go back to wherever you came from and stay with your own dad? Go _home_! Why did you even come here in the first place, huh? Don't you know that nobody wants you here? Didn't you know? Just go back wherever you came from. Don't you have a father, or what?"

A terrible, heavy silence.

His words backfired. In the worst way.

The German stared up at him with a breathless smile that was almost a sneer (hadn't ever seen that look on that man's face, and it was pretty goddamn terrifying if he were honest), and after an eerie silence, he suddenly threw back his head and began to laugh.

He laughed.

If it could have been called that, really. Not a real laugh. Just a humorless, coarse, dry giggle that cracked with the effort, and Alfred could only shudder as the German gasped for breath between his frightening cackles, as if some part of him might have gone a little over the edge. Maybe it had, maybe something had struck a nerve, and when the German had gathered enough strength, he started to speak.

Alfred wished he hadn't. His words, somehow, were worse than his despondent laughter.

" _My_ father?" came the gasp, as he pulled himself from his odd splayed position and up onto his knees, "My father. That's right. Yeah, I had a father back home, for a while."

Alfred shifted his weight, anxiously, and his clenched fists fell lax in what was very close to being _fear_.

Not fear of that man, no, but fear of what he would say.

The German raised his head, then, catching Alfred's gaze in an instant, and maybe his voice had gotten a little miserable when he whispered, "I was left at an orphanage when I was four. I was adopted when I was six. And the man that I called _father—_ " he lifted himself up onto one knee, hands pressing into the concrete floor for support, and god almighty his look was _terrible_ , "—was shot by an American at Normandy after he had already surrendered."

He reached up and clutched his shirt as he struggled for breath even as he said it, and Alfred's fists clenched back up again, more tightly than ever, so that the sudden tremor would not be noticeable.

Because _his_ father had been at Normandy, too.

His father.

Dumbly, Alfred tried to speak, tried to find some kind of justification, anything, anything at all.

"He deserved it. He was shooting them up," was his lame, numb response, and the German's head snapped up, and he stared up at Alfred with possibly the most wrathful gaze that had ever been known to mankind. Alfred understood that look; that no man ever deserved to be shot after he had surrendered, and somehow, Alfred knew that was true.

Didn't know why he had said it then.

His old man.

He took a step back when the German spoke again, as though the venom in his words would be able to do him physical harm.

"Deserved it? _Deserved_ it? He shot them because they were storming the beach! It was his _job._ But he obeyed the rules of war, and they didn't! He was _on_ his knees with his hands in the air and they came up behind him and shot him in the back of the _head_! That was my father. He didn't even want to go to war, but he did anyway."

Rules of war. Back of the head. Men who had already surrendered, against the pride in their bodies.

Alfred barely realized when the German had pulled himself back upright after a great struggle, barely noticed that his eyes were filling with unshed tears, didn't hear his low mutters, because his mind was thinking of...

Oh, no.

Hadn't he brought a German soldier's helmet to school once, all those years ago? And wasn't there a bullet-hole in the back? And hadn't his father been at Normandy? His father, who, unlike the German's, had gone to war gladly and had loved every minute of it. And, _oh god_ , hadn't Alfred been so _proud_ of it? What if—

On, _no_. That couldn't be right.

He staggered back in horror, as the German before him tried to keep his balance back against the wall, their eyes met yet again, and the German was still fuckin' talking, but Alfred didn't even hear him anymore. Felt so sick.

The German didn't have a father anymore.

A faint whooshing in his ears.

Some other man's father had taken him away.

His hands trembled.

Because, oh _god_. Oh god, what if it had been _his_ father that had shot the _German's_ father at Normandy all those years ago? Oh _god_ , the old man had been there and he had shot men who had surrendered, hadn't he, he had always bragged about it and he had never denied it, and he had _shot_ them even as they had been on their knees—

Oh god.

He couldn't bear the thought. Couldn't have handled that connection. If he and this man had shared such a terrible fate, had been linked like that through some bizarre circumstance, if they had been thrust together like that, Alfred couldn't have handled it.

He could accept many things about his father's role in the war, many good things, and maybe he had once been _proud_ of his father's massacres of surrendered troops, but seeing it right now before him, a man his age whose father had knelt on the ground years ago, throwing his hands in the air and _hoping_ that his captors would be merciful because he had a little boy waiting at home...

Just like Alfred had waited.

But his father had come home. The German's had not. It was too much. What if his father had killed the German's? He'd die of shame.

His clenched fist flew up to his mouth, as the nausea rose up, and he was so frightened that he would vomit right there that he turned on his heel and ran out as quick as he could, and when he made it to the door, he didn't stop for even a second until he had skidded out into the alleyway.

Sunlight. Wind.

His chest ached. Breathlessness. He didn't feel the pain in his leg anymore, and bolted out of the alley as fast as he could. In his haste and distress, he did not notice that his 'friends' had gone. Everything seemed a little blurry. Distant. Mind whirring.

Couldn't be. Couldn't be. No way. There was no way. What were the _chances_? It couldn't be.

He came out of the alley and leaned against a streetlamp for support, heaving deep breaths to settle his stomach as he waited for an opportunity to cross the street. He felt sick. Cars passed. People walked. No one spared him a glance. Oh, he was gonna puke, he could _feel_ it, if the fuckin' light didn't hurry and _change_.

Finally, mercifully, it did, and he sprinted across, and for a moment, when his feet hit the pavement on the other side, he thought for sure that the worst was over, if he could just get home, just _ask_ —

But as he lifted his foot, a mere second from going into an all-out, marathon-worthy run, a terrible, high-pitched wail of despair from behind made him freeze in his tracks.

That sound. Heartbreak. Like back _then_.

As the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, he turned around (despite the voice in his head that urged him _not_ to, to just go on), and it was with another awful lurch of his stomach that he could see the German, still across the street, kneeling down in the alleyway. What now? What was it now? Good god, had _he_ made that sound? That proud, stoic, unshakeable man; hadn't ever thought that that man could make a sound like _that_.

It took a moment for Alfred to understand what had happened, as the passing cars blocked his view, and even though he should have carried on, should have just kept walking, he found himself frozen in place and waiting, waiting.

Waiting.

The cars and people cleared suddenly, just for a second. A break in the sea. Only a second.

But it was enough, and he saw.

The German knelt on his knees in the dirty alley, and he was crying out and coughing as he tried to control his sobs, and in his arms he held his dog, and even from a distance Alfred could see the canine's head rolling this way and that with sickening limpness, its black fur matted and wet with what was undoubtedly blood, and he realized that he had made a horrible mistake in _trusting_ them.

The German shook the dog, that _dumb_ dog, as if trying to wake him, his moaning and screeching muffled by the sounds of traffic.

Alfred could have died.

Then the cars melded back together and blocked his view again. The horrid spell was broken, and he could only try to carry on, because, Christ he had to know! He had to know. Beyond all else, beyond that horrible scene, he had to know if his father had killed another father at Normandy.

That awful sound, though.

As the German's anguished shriek played over and over again in his ears in a relentless loop, like another shriek from so long ago often did, he stumbled through the streets, and he was so distraught by the time he reached his own home that he did not even remember to crawl in through his window, and burst in straight through the front door.

His father was on the couch, and when he saw Alfred, he straightened up combatively.

"Boy! Where the hell do you think you've—"

"Dad!" he interrupted, so numb that he was beyond fear, "Dad, were you at Normandy?"

For a second, his father fell silent, and Alfred thought he would stand up and slap him, but then his stance relaxed and he smiled.

"Sure was!" he barked, always so eager to relive his war days. "101st Airborne! Dropped down into Vierville on Utah beach! Damn, was that a thrill!"

Alfred's heart raced. His forehead broke out with a cold sweat. Any minute now, his stomach would lose the battle with nausea.

"Dad, did you... Did you kill any Germans on the beach? After they surrendered?"

Such questions would have been absurd in a normal household, maybe. Here, it was nothing, and his father didn't even bat an eye.

He was silent for a moment in thought, and Alfred knew all of the color had drained from his face, but then the old man shook his head. "On the beach? Nah, we got there after the bunkers had already been taken. We didn't need to go on the beach. But once we got down farther into France, I—"

The rest of father's words were phased into white noise, and Alfred could only lean back against the wall, and sigh in relief. His hands shook. Oh, such _relief_. Jittery with adrenaline.

Everything he had wanted to hear.

His father had not been the one that had snuffed out the German's father. _Oh_ , thank god, thank _god;_ he couldn't have taken that guilt, couldn't have handled that. He couldn't have. He and the German were not tied together by their fathers. He could have fallen down onto the floor right there and burst into either tears or laughter, he didn't really know which, but his relief was short lived.

As usual.

His father suddenly broke through the mist and caught Alfred's attention by wrenching around on the couch, meeting his gaze with a self-satisfied smile, and he added, "But you should have seen him, Alfred!"

Him? Him, who? His father had been prattling. He had not been listening. Something to be grateful for, perhaps.

His father raised his hands up into the air next to his head in mock-surrender, and said, in a thick, ugly German accent that was _nothing_ like that man's pleasant tones, " _Nein_! _Nein_! Don't shoot me! I haff vife und boy in house! Und ein dog too!"

A chill came over Alfred then, and he shuddered, because he did not need to ask what had become of the pleading German his father was imitating : the old man folded his hand into the shape of a gun, and said, simply, "Pow!"

Laughing, he turned back around, resuming his gaze on the television as though nothing had happened. In his house, this was nothing. Nothing.

Behind the couch and against the wall, Alfred watched his father, silently.

His mind wandered.

Nothing. It was always nothing, and somehow everything. What was nothing to the old man was everything to Alfred.

And in his head, suddenly, in his mind, he could see the streets of Germany, cobbled stone slick and wet, as the defeated troops that hadn't been captured returned home to their families, and he could also see, in the middle of the crowd, a small blond boy with ice-blue eyes waiting in the rain, looking back and forth for a soldier that would never return. Could see him pushing through the crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of something familiar.

_Nein! Nein!_

Nothing.

His father may have felt _nothing_ , but _he_ could feel something shifting within him, and as he watched his father, leaning into the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table and laughing loudly as he watched the television, it was no longer with that desperate admiration and fearful awe that he had had not so long ago. He only felt...

What _was_ it he felt? It wasn't love. His father knew no love. It was not affection. His father knew no kindness. It was not respect. And his father knew no _remorse_.

What did he feel?

_You should have seen him!_

That feeling. That acid.

Hate.

It was hate. His entire life his father had taught him only to _hate_. It had worked, alright, because, oh, he _hated_ his father. And he hated himself. Standing there, watching the old man from behind, and realizing for the first time that he hated that man. Hated his father.

Something had to change.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. He didn't want _nothing_. He wanted something. He wanted more than this. There had to have been more to life than just _hate_. So much hate. His own was no longer needed. He wouldn't _do_ this anymore. Wouldn't keep on. Wouldn't go on.

He wouldn't. He _couldn't_.

It hurt, all this hatred. All this confusion. All this nothing. Pointless. Useless. He was so tired of hating. He couldn't do it like his father could. He couldn't feel just _nothing_. Couldn't keep it up. It was exhausting.

He wanted more.

Done with it.


	6. Valse Lente

**Chapter 6**

**Valse Lente**

Alfred had decided when he was twelve that he never wanted kids.

He remembered with excruciating clarity the event that had lead him to that conclusion :

A sunny school day in April. He had sat in class with all the other children, and while they were smiling and chattering, he had stayed still and silent, eyes settled firmly on his desk. It had been 'bring-your-father-to-school' day, and all of the others were excited because their fathers were out in the hall, standing patiently and waiting for the teacher to stick her head out of the door and call their names. He had been excited too, at first, the week before when the announcement had been made. He had longed to show off his war-hero father, and get respect from the others, but when he had told his father about it, all he had gotten was a snappy, 'I ain't goin' to no damn school'.

He had tried the entire week, over and over again, and every time he asked his father would say 'no'. But still he tried, because oh, he hadn't wanted to be the only one there without a father, but his last request had ended with a familiar old cuff to the side of the face. He didn't ask again, and when he came into the class that day, he had whispered into his teacher's ear to _please_ not call his name, because his father wasn't there.

Her look of pity had hurt him as much as his father's fist ever could.

And so, as he had sat there, feeling left out and unloved, he had decided that he would never have children, because if he did then he would be destined to end up disappointing them as his father so often disappointed him.

His father had never wanted to spend time with him when he was a child. Had never sought him out.

So why now, all of a sudden, was his father acting so strange? Why now?

It had been a week since his horrible brush with near psychological catastrophe, and he had spent every minute of every day anywhere but in his house. He came home, in fact, only to sleep, and did not acknowledge his father with even a hello if he was still awake when he arrived. He couldn't. The burning of hate was still far too strong. A bitter taste in the back of his throat. He ignored his father, as easily as if he lived in the house by himself.

No 'good morning'. No 'see ya later'. No 'goodnight'.

It was just fine with him, this silence and coldness, but now his father was suddenly waiting up later and later, and when Alfred would finally come home he would leap to his feet and say, 'Hi.'

When Alfred only walked straight to his room without a word, he could swear that he saw something that almost looked like hurt in his father's eyes.

And maybe it was wrong, but god, it felt _great_ to hurt him, even a little. And when his father had knocked on his door one night, he had quickly barked, 'Go away.' The old man did, and the next morning when Alfred awoke, his father had been waiting in the kitchen to see him off to work.

Huh.

If he had to put his father completely in the dark just to get the simplest of fatherly reactions from him, then so be it, but Alfred didn't plan on resuming his life in that mechanical routine that it had been before. Over. That was done and over with now. Wouldn't go back.

He didn't feel pity for his father, who was now suddenly seeking him out only because _Alfred_ was not, and if he was just scared of being left all alone as the hand of time crept upon him (already fifty and mostly grey-haired) then that was his own goddamn fault for having never been a real father in the first place.

It was as if everything had crashed down in just a few minutes. It was as if everything that he had ever thought about his father had completely dissolved. Would have left the old man, if he had been braver. Would have abandoned him right there and then, and left him to the whim of time. Would have never seen him again, if he were able to.

Despite his harsh thoughts, Alfred couldn't say that his heart was really so hardened, and it was only because his father had raised him alone that he continued to live with him now. Maybe there was still some kind of lingering sentiment for the old man, but it didn't even seem important anymore.

Not since the that awful image of the German's father, kneeling in the sand.

Couldn't bring himself to spend time with the old man anymore, and now, on his day off and without Matthew and Francis, he walked the city streets alone. Normally couldn't stand being alone, but this time maybe it was a blessing, because he felt like he finally had room to think a little. To try and sort out everything in his mind. To get his head screwed on straight.

A blessing? Famous last words, maybe.

More like a curse.

Because he had time to think, alright, but what he thought about only made him feel sick to his stomach, and he looked back on everything he had ever done with his father's hand on his arm. He remembered every word, every action, every second of hate-filled stupidity, and oh god, if he could go back in time to the day of _that incident_ , he would have leapt forward and covered the old man's body with his own, because he had been strong enough to endure the fierce beating that had extinguished the frail senior. Would have dragged that German back into the old building, and would have brought the dog, too. Would have offered his hand, instead of slamming that man into the wall.

He'd been wishing for so long now that he could go back in time to see the old man back in that shining light.

Now, he just wished he could have gone back and erased him entirely.

"Hey, where ya goin'?"

Wishing, wishing, wishing. Couldn't change things that had already happened. Could only try to move forward.

"Hey!"

Hated the feeling, though. He could not stand the regret.

"You listenin'?"

He could not stand the shame.

"Jones!"

He inhaled when someone reached out and poked a finger into his back, and when he came out of his head and back down into reality, he turned around, and felt a wave of exasperation wash over him when he saw his _friends_ behind him. Hadn't wanted to see those mugs anytime soon, if ever again. Hated the sight of them suddenly, as much as he hated the sight of the old man.

Didn't they have better things to do?

"What do you guys want?" he grumbled, and they followed him faithfully from behind, ignoring his foul mood with smiles.

"We've been talkin' to you for about five minutes. You're really out of it today!"

Maybe he was, and he finally stopped walking and leaned back against a building, not wanting to spend time with them, but not wanting to think about any of that godawful stuff anymore, either. If anything, they were useful for a distraction, even if that distraction was the realization that he would very much have liked to punch each and every one of them in the face.

Damn, would that have felt good.

They fell in beside him on either side, oblivious to his sentiments towards them, and together they watched the cars pass by on the street, and when they started speaking mindlessly, Alfred suddenly leaned forward enough to crane his head and send each of them in turn a cold glare. They squirmed a little, as if not really understanding Alfred's look, and that didn't surprise him much. As far as they were concerned, they hadn't done anything wrong.

Alfred couldn't shake that terrible cry of agony from his fuckin' ears, no matter how hard he tried.

He was _so_ upset at them for ignoring his order so brazenly. No words for what they had done. For how it could have even crossed their minds at all. Didn't they understand 'man's best friend'? Christ almighty.

His fault, though, for having ever entrusted them with anything in the first place.

They looked surprised at his attitude all the same, and after a suffocating silence he finally said, voice low and rough, "I told you not to touch that dog. Didn't I tell you?"

For a moment they were still, and then one of them cried, defensively, "The fucker _bit_ me!" and sure enough, when Alfred lowered his eyes, he could see the other's hand wrapped firmly in a bandage through which blood had leaked.

Boo-fuckin'-hoo.

"Well," he spat unsympathetically, crossing his arms above his chest, "You shouldn't have put your goddamn hand near its mouth, should you?"

"Calm down, Jones," he grunted, voice sounding somewhat nervous, "Christ, it was just a dog."

"I _like_ dogs."

"Yeah," the injured one muttered, "So do I. When they're not bitin' me."

"Don't be such a damn baby," was all Alfred grunted in response, and they shuffled around a little.

Ah, hell.

He rested his head against the wall as they lit up their cigarettes, wrinkling his nose as the foul smoke flew up in his face, and he didn't know _why_ he stood there with them then, why he didn't just walk away. Why he didn't tell them to go to hell, and then wander off.

Couldn't say.

The minutes passed, and he closed his eyes as he tilted his head back in exhaustion.

Why, why, why. Why he didn't just tell them what he _really_ thought of them. That they were senseless cowards and miserable failures, little better than thugs, feeding off of each others' hatred until they had destroyed everything, and that he _hated_ them more than he could ever possibly express. That their fathers were as useless as they were. That his old man meant nothing to him anymore, and neither did they.

Wished he had said it. Wished he _could_ say it.

"Hey, look who it is."

He opened his eyes, and saw one of them inclining his head to the other side of the street, and Alfred looked. He had a feeling of what he would see, a guess, and was correct.

Carrying bags so full of groceries that they threatened to burst, struggling to keep his eyes above them, walking a bit strangely, was the German.

For once, that overwhelming desire to flee didn't come rising up, and Alfred could only follow the German with his eyes. He scoffed, despite himself, because never before had the German come all the way over on this side just to buy groceries, and Alfred suspected that it was just an act of spite. Defiance, no matter how subtle.

Stubborn bastard.

In some odd way, Alfred was relieved to see him out and about, after all that. Glad, in a way, that that man was here.

"Wanna go after him?" one of the others asked, and Alfred shrugged either shoulder lazily, feeling suddenly confident and in control without knowing why. A long time coming, that confidence. Casting aside the old man had spurred him a bit.

Thinking for himself, if only a little.

"I don't feel like it," he drawled, leaning back and raising one knee, pressing a foot into the building, and damn, did he ever smile in relief when the others nodded their agreement.

"Yeah, me either."

He was grateful for that.

Wasn't sure he would ever be able to even look that man in the eye again, let alone let them go after him. Might have had to put his foot down, no matter how terrifying it would have been.

He dared himself to glance over at his least favorite member of the group, the most violent and vociferous, Ryan Jr., that little snitch who told his father _everything_ , but even he only leaned back against the wall, cigarette in mouth and looking completely content to stay where he was. That was a first; musta been in a good, mellow mood for once.

Alfred turned his eyes back to the German, and watched him go.

He hadn't ever been able to just stand there and _watch_ him before, and he took in his appearance with an eagerness that almost felt like enthrallment. Had gotten to see him up close for the first time, and now he got to see how the German walked. Got to see him going down the street like normal people did. What a privilege; years and years of seeing that man at his worst, and it felt strange, this normal thing.

The German stood out in the drab, wintry city, as his platinum hair caught the pale sunlight and gleamed, very white skin standing in stark contrast to his black clothing, eyes bluer than the sky and possibly as endless. Perfect posture, strong shoulders, chiseled jaw and nose. Alfred may not have been able to pick out _a_ German, exactly, but he could pick out _his_ German from a mile away. Coulda seen that man for miles, he felt, just the way he was.

No one else quite like that.

Alfred's first thought then was that, if his father had not told him so and if he had never heard that man speak, he would never have known that he was a German at all. Would never even have wondered if he had come from some other country. Would never have wondered if he spoke English or not. He would have thought, perhaps, that he was just a country boy, maybe born on a farm, coming into the city for errands.

His fellow countryman.

...did it really matter so much, where someone had been born? Where that man had been born? Did that mean they could never see each other as equals? Could they never be friends? What was so different about him, anyway? Looked like anyone else. He was certainly a human being, that was for sure, and was certainly alive. And he had seen the German bleed, and his blood was red.

So. How were they different?

Suddenly, in the middle of that observation, the German looked over, as though he knew somehow that Alfred was there. A sixth sense or something. Maybe, as much as Alfred had picked out that man, that man had picked out him from all the others.

Their eyes locked, over the cars and hoards of people.

He was too far away to read the gaze, and maybe that was for the best, because after the travesty of their last meeting, Alfred couldn't imagine that it was anything less than absolute hatred.

How could he have known that they would have the misfortune to clash so many times? He hadn't planned any of that. All he had, it seemed, was misfortune.

But maybe there was someone else on this miserable little planet that had almost the same kind of terrible luck that he did, and it was perhaps a huge cosmic joke that caused one of the German's bags to rip open and spill its contents all over the sidewalk.

Yeah. Go figure.

The German stood there for dumb moment, not moving at all, and then he turned, staring down at the rolling potatoes and apples as though he, too, could not believe his luck. A long moment of nothing, and then, suddenly, his perfect posture slumped.

Maybe it was Alfred's presence that brought this misfortune upon him, or maybe their stars were crossed somewhere up above.

Beside him, his friends giggled halfheartedly, too lethargic and mellow to do much else, but Alfred felt his heart sinking slowly into his stomach.

Just that slump of utter defeat. The way the German looked so damn _miserable_. As if everything had caught up to him and was starting to press him down. As if something was coming close to just snapping. Something as small as a ripped bag seemed to take him closer and closer to some edge. A cliff. And for a moment there, the German hung his head, squinted his eyes shut, his face crumpled, and Alfred was afraid that he was going to burst into tears right there on the street.

Why did that make him feel so sick?

Oh. Couldn't take it.

Then the German opened his eyes and shook off that look, but only barely, and knelt down on the dirty sidewalk, grabbing up what he could without spilling anything else, and the look on his face made Alfred want to just...

_Help_.

Just to do something. Anything. Just help. That look.

Alfred didn't know _why_ he did it. Couldn't ever have explained it. Couldn't have put it into words. He would never have done it if he had been thinking rationally. Not in front of _them_. Not after everything that had been done. But, oh _god_ ; seeing that look of complete exhaustion and frustration and a horrifying hopelessness on the German's face, as if he were _so_ close to just giving _up_ , and knowing that it was his fault, his fault, his damn fault, he couldn't help himself.

Hands clammy and heart racing, Alfred reached out and snatched the cigarette out of Ryan's mouth, bringing it up to his lips and inhaling as deeply as he could, and even though it burned his lungs and made him stifle a cough with his fist, it gave him the rush of bravery that he needed, and he pushed off the wall and stalked across the street.

Everything went quiet. He could feel blood hammering in his head.

He could hear his father's voice in his ears, mocking that soldier. Could hear that heartbreaking shriek of anguish.

Standing tall and strong even though he felt the opposite, he reached the other side of the street, and when the German glanced up and saw him coming, he froze up in place like a deer.

Somehow, despite it all, it was one of the most frightening moments of Alfred's life, kneeling down in front of that man for the first time.

Pressing a palm into the ground for balance, Alfred reached out blindly and grabbed an apple, and when their eyes met, there was none of that electric atmosphere that usually surrounded them. Just a dull, dreamy fog. As if the entire world around them had vanished.

Alfred might have been more appreciative of that if something hadn't felt so off about the German in that instant. This whole thing just felt a little odd. It wasn't a position that Alfred had ever thought he would ever occupy, on one knee in front of the man that was supposed to be his worst enemy, helping him gather escaping produce, but here he was.

Oh, he hoped that the German could finally understand that he hadn't meant for any of this to happen. Hadn't meant it. Hadn't wanted it. Never had.

Alfred finally opened his mouth, and whispered, weakly, "Hey," and the sound of his voice seemed to bring the German out of his daze, if only a little.

A shift of weight, a slight clearing of his eyes, a lowering of his chin. Alfred expected him to narrow his eyes and curse him, as he deserved, maybe even to lurch forward and give him a punch in the nose, as he also deserved.

None of the sort, as a matter of fact.

Just silence.

The German only stared at him, in a way that Alfred had never seen, and then he looked across the street to where Alfred's so-called friends were watching with breathless smiles. A long, hard stare, and Alfred glimpsed something horrible in those blue eyes; expectancy. Resignation. Maybe a little relief.

Alfred saw the German, then, really _saw_ him, and felt suddenly as if the blurry world have given way beneath his feet.

He realized that the German, always so neat, hadn't combed his hair back that day, bangs hanging down over his forehead. Hadn't shaved; pale stubble, gleaming in the light. Hadn't even bothered with his clothing, black and wrinkled and far too big, carelessly thrown on at the last second, hardly thick enough for the freezing weather. Hadn't even bothered with _anything_ ; as he knelt there, Alfred could see, beneath the leg of his pants, that he wasn't even wearing socks.

And it hit him then, with an awful rise of guilt, that he had misread the _meaning_ of the German's trip into town. Had misunderstood. He had thought it was proud defiance. Stubbornness. A desire to agitate Alfred.

It wasn't, wasn't anything like that, not at all, and when the German looked once again over to his friends and then back at Alfred, this time with a high brow and the faintest ghost of a smile, Alfred understood, and understanding only made him feel ever worse, if that were possible. Understood suddenly that the German had come here _hoping_ to find them. He had come here hoping to run into them like this on the street as he always did, and oh, god, Alfred knew why. He knew. He could see it, just in that look, just in the fact that he had come here searching for them.

He wanted them to beat him. He wanted them to _kill_ him. He had given up. He had been pushed too far. Too far. Not just to the edge, but over it. The German, so proud for so long despite it all, had finally said, 'enough is enough.' He'd given up.

And it was Alfred's fault.

It was his fault.

Maybe it had been the loss of his dog. Maybe it had been having to remember his slain father. Or maybe it had just been one blow too many, the last straw, and now he was kneeling here before Alfred, his loose stance all but an invitation, waiting for them to jump upon him as they always had, and this time, this time, he was expecting it to be the last.

Alfred wanted nothing more then than to press his forehead down onto the sidewalk and cry, because he was _so_ ashamed. So ashamed. Hadn't ever felt anything like it. Had never felt so fuckin' _ashamed_ in his entire life. Hadn't ever known he could feel that way. Hadn't ever known something could feel so bad.

Wanted to cry, but instead he tried in vain to smile, pale and suddenly nauseous as he was, and shook his head, once. To let the German know that today was a no-go. He would not call on the dogs. Not today. Not ever. Never again. He wouldn't, even if that was what this man wanted now.

Not ever again.

The German understood Alfred as much as Alfred had understood him, and it was with a face full of disappointment that he abruptly abandoned the fallen groceries and pulled himself to his feet with dizzying fluidness, gliding off without another glance behind.

Alfred's heart sank from his stomach down into his feet, and was sure that it might actually have fallen out of him altogether. Couldn't let him _go_ , not like that, not after that. Had to at least say something, try something. Anything.

He yanked himself back upright, cried, "Hey!" and stumbled over his own feet as he scrambled to gather the potatoes that were still rolling this way and that on the street. "Hey! Wait!"

The German did not wait, instead speeding his pace, and then Alfred's peers on the other side of the road burst into helpless giggles, as _he_ , Alfred, self-proclaimed prince of the street, gathered up dirty vegetables and used his adored leather jacket as a makeshift bag. Christ, they sounded as much like hyenas as they always did, although suddenly the sound of it seemed more infuriating to him than it was annoying. Still, he couldn't help but look over at them, as they struggled to contain themselves.

Watching him.

"L-look at _Jones_ ," Ryan wheezed, laughing so hard that he was slapping his knee, and it was with an indescribable _hatred_ that Alfred shot them a wide, ridiculous grin, and they burst into tears.

They assumed, after all, that he was just teasing the German, as they always had. The calm before the storm. Setting things up for something great. Oh, he was, alright, but it wasn't anything that he ever intended them to be a part of.

Not _ever_ again.

Couldn't stand the sight of them anymore, couldn't stand their laughter, and he had never been more serious about anything in his _life_ , oh god his head was pounding he was so serious, and when he had gathered up the very last of the fleeing produce, he turned tail and jogged off after the long-gone German as fast as he could. And as he ran he didn't see any of the people passing him by; he saw only his father's face, his own, and how he had been so close to _becoming_ him, so damn close, so close, but not anymore. Not now. Now, the German's downfall had been _his_ uprising, that man's submission had caused his riot, and as he shoved through the crowd he could feel himself shoving past the old man himself. It felt so _good_ to be defiant, to disobey the old son of a bitch even in such a small way as picking up potatoes, felt so good to cast him aside, felt so good to do something for once because _he_ wanted to, and when he reached the house that he knew was the German's, he hopped up the steps, held his jacket close, and rang the doorbell.

Nothing stirred, and he rang again.

"Hey."

Nothing.

He knocked.

"You there?"

He waited patiently, but no one answered.

Stupid. Of course not. There was no way in hell that man would have opened the door for him, not for him, not even if his damn house had been on fire.

Not for Alfred.

He had come too far now to be deterred, to back off, to give up, and he set the produce down on the steps gently, and then he knocked again, and again, and when there was still no response, he leaned against the door and said, loudly, "I left your stuff on the step, okay?"

Silence.

It occurred to him the near absurdity of the situation; standing on the doorstep of a house in the neighborhood that he avoided so desperately, knocking on the door of the man that he had been raised to hate, just a few steps away from the place where _that incident_ had occurred. If anyone had told him even a month before that he would be standing here, he would have laughed in their face.

And yet here he stood.

He felt so damn _stupid_.

Hell, even if the German had humored him and opened the door, what would he have said? 'Sorry about your dog?' He'd get punched in the face.

Out of place and awkward and feeling that he had overstayed his welcome, he wrapped it up. "I'm gonna go," he said, more gently. "Don't forget your stuff, alright?"

He lingered for a second, desperate to just have the chance to explain to that man that nothing bad was going to happen from now; by god, nothing was ever going to happen to that man ever again if he had his way, not ever. Couldn't find the words or the courage, though, and eventually he turned and walked off, giving the German his space, and as he went he could swear that he saw the flutter of a curtain, a shadow in the window.

It struck him, when he was farther on down the streets, hands in his pockets and eyes on the sidewalk, that he felt a little better.

For the time in years, he felt _better_.

He felt brave and even a little hopeful, because he had done something good for once, and he had done it knowing that his father would beat his ass if ever he found out. And he hadn't cared. He hadn't cared. He had done something on his own, thinking for himself, without feeling that horrible need to conform. Hadn't done something because someone had expected him to.

Just because he had wanted to.

He felt strangely liberated, doing something good for once.

He wanted that feeling again, and he knew what he could do to get it, and when he returned home that night, it was with a plan of action and a bottle of whiskey.

His father had been waiting on the couch, and when Alfred came through the door and smiled and held the bottle up high, his eyes lit up, but more at the sight of Alfred than the booze. Hell, maybe he really did love his son more than he let on, or maybe he was just scared of being abandoned, but when Alfred proposed a night of friendly father/son drinking, he was more than happy.

Looked _happy_ , for once, to have Alfred's company.

Shame that it was only a farce.

Sure wished he could have shown that affection years earlier. Well. Oh, well. Didn't matter. He had something else in mind.

The idea in his head was so appealing that he could barely control his excitement when he slammed the glasses down on the table and uncapped the whiskey, catching his father's eye and smiling.

He hadn't ever drank with the old man before, and his father was just so damn happy to be shown a little attention that he didn't even question Alfred's motives.

Alfred took the first shot, and watched as his father put two back with a wince, no stranger to heavy drinking. He didn't lower his gaze when his father met his eyes, didn't flinch or look away, and maybe it was this sudden air of confidence that made his father reach out and slap his back with camaraderie. Alfred smiled, even though his stomach twisted with dislike that bordered on hatred.

Yeah, drink, ya old bastard. Go ahead.

Off to an easy enough start, his father having never refused a drink in his life, and the feeling that Alfred had of being in control of the situation for once was exhilarating. Being the one to have a little power over his father. Being the one in charge in this house.

Alfred drank a second. It was bitter and warm, not something he really cared for, but he felt braver with every minute that passed.

Couldn't really stand it, the wait to get the old man drunk. Hard to knock a professional drunk out.

His father took one more, and then leaned back, saying suddenly, "Where you been going all this time, huh? Haven't seen you in so long."

Alfred slammed back a third, just because he could, and replied, against the tickle in his throat, "Here and there."

A rather smart, evasive answer that would have irritated his father before, but he accepted it now, because Alfred was talking to him for the first time in weeks.

It took a good two hours before his father's face was red and he was reaching a limit. Alfred had cut himself off long before, having gathered enough courage and having enough sense to know that he wouldn't get anything done if he were drunk, too.

Just a little more and the old man would be down for the count.

To speed it along, and feeling rather cunning, Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose and drawled, "You call that drinkin'?"

A challenge. His father took the bait.

"Boy, you don't know who you're talkin' to," was the coarse reply, and it was with a look of determination that he drank three more.

Ah, hell, next time Alfred wouldn't even bother with the glass and just toss the old man the damn bottle instead, the way he went through it.

Another hour later, the bottle was swimming with only a fifth of its original contents, and his father was swimming too. Any second now. Alfred watched his swaying father with an arched brow of impatience, feeling restless and agitated.

Oh, come on. Go down already.

He waited. The clock ticked away.

"Alfred," his old man suddenly slurred, as his face relaxed with sleep, "Did I ever tell you...that you got your mama's eyes? Sure do miss her. Wish you coulda had more time with 'er. She was so pretty." He smiled, blearily, and then with a great sigh he passed out on the couch in a drunken stupor.

Finally.

It was a sign of his deteriorating affection for his father that Alfred didn't feel too moved by his earnest words, because Francis had told him that many a time. Had, all those years, and it made him _sick_ that his father had to be under the table smashed before he could even speak kindly to his own son. He had yearned his whole life to be spoken gently to by his father.

To be told, 'I love you, son'.

It had never happened, and it was too late now. He no longer cared.

As the old man lay there motionless, Alfred inhaled a great breath and then got up to do what he had been planning on doing the entire night. Pulling on his boots, and then his jacket, he opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a small brass key. Gripping it firmly in his hand, he crept up the stairs and pushed open the door to his father's room.

Off in the corner was a locked chest. He knelt before it, and with the key removed the lock. When he opened it, he looked down for a moment with a terrible loathing, at both his father and himself. It was a war chest, of sorts, and in it lay all of the things his father cherished from the days of his service. Things Alfred had rifled through before with pride and awe.

The old revolver, a hat, a Nazi flag taken from the Reichstag in Germany in the days of denazification, boots, old maps, jars of dirt from different places, and underneath it all was the bloodied soldier's helmet.

Reaching down with gentle hands, Alfred took up the helmet and pulled it out. As he stared at it up and down, the city lights streaming through the hole in the back, he tried to remember what he had ever been thinking when he had brought it to school. Had he been stupid? Or just that ignorant? Couldn't even fathom doing that now.

A man had died wearing this thing.

Stupid.

He tucked the helmet under his arm, locked the chest, and as he walked out, he tried to put a face to it. Tried to imagine the man that had worn this. What his name was, where he had come from. If he had had family waiting. What he had looked like. How old he had been.

Couldn't, though, no matter how hard he tried. Couldn't see anything except the face of the blue-eyed German that he was becoming steadily fascinated with.

As he passed silently towards the front door, he glanced over at the couch to be sure that his father was still sleeping. He was, and oh, god help him, the thought that suddenly crossed Alfred's mind in his hatred. The thought that he should have just put a gun to the back of his father's head, and made him beg, like he had made all those German soldiers beg, as they had knelt in the mud and cried out to their distant wives, only to be shown no mercy.

He pushed the terrible thought away, because he hated his father but he was still obligated to love him, too, and when he stepped out into the cold night air, hatred was replaced with determination.

He knew exactly where he was going. He knew exactly what he was doing. And, for once, he was proud of it.

The journey to Central park was not a long one, and as he walked around the endless paths, feet brushing through dead leaves and breath visible in the air, he was seeking out the most secluded place as well as the most peaceful.

Somewhere that looked _right_.

He walked for an hour before he found it, a rarely used trail deep in the center, underneath a crop of rocks, and he left the path and strayed out into the trees. He searched with his feet for soft earth, and when he found it, he fell to his knees. Grabbing up a branch, he stabbed it into the ground, and began to dig. With every scatter of soil onto the leaves, his chest felt lighter, his shoulders felt less tense, and when he had a hole before him that was big enough and deep enough, he took up the helmet in his dirty hands, and set it down inside.

He looked down at it in a moment of strange humbleness, a sensation he wasn't used to feeling, and beyond anything he hoped that one day this might actually _mean_ something to someone. That someone would have cared. That someone could sense it. As he shoved the earth back on top of the helmet, carefully, he also hoped that maybe a woman and son, two old parents in Germany, would wake up in the morning and feel a little more at peace.

When the hole was covered, he scattered it with leaves, and pulled himself to feet, admiring his work. Because, _oh_ , the last remnant of that soldier _deserved_ to be in the quiet ground and not locked away in his father's chest of hate. Like he himself had been. Trapped like that.

He didn't leave the park at first, and settled himself on a bench that overlooked the site, leaning forward and elbows resting on his knees.

Above, stars.

It wasn't much. It wasn't a proper end, by any means. But it was all he could do, and hopefully it was enough.

He sat there, on the bench, watching the distant spot with a satisfied rush, that dirty patch of park ground that had suddenly become hallow, and with a smile he leaned back, and looked up at the sky. He stayed there all night, watching the heavens, and hoped that with this act he had forever escaped his father's world.

At the break of dawn, he left the park and returned home, and he made a silent oath to himself that he would never let anyone think for him again. Wouldn't ever let anyone push him around. Wouldn't ever let anyone create excuses for him. Wouldn't ever do the wrong thing just because someone full of hate told him it was right.

He had been so blinded by his father's prejudices that he had never realized that he had brought another human being down so low. Another _man_ , not a German, and if the German gave up and died now, then Alfred would have committed murder, like his father had.

He wouldn't stand for that.

The soldier had been laid to rest. And now, he would lay to rest the animosity between him and the pale-haired German. One way or another. Whether the German wanted it or not.

Couldn't let that man give up.


	7. Velvet Waltz

**Chapter 7**

**Velvet Waltz**

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

That was what his mother had told him when he was young, over and over again, _so_ many times, as the days had grown ever colder and darker, and so had his mother's spirit. It was hard, she had said, but as long as Ludwig never _forgot_ them...

As long he never forgot.

Then they weren't really dead. Not really.

Days.

He had lain in bed for _days_ , and so he was now, on his side as he watched the morning sunlight struggling to come in through the closed curtains, and as he stared blankly ahead at the wall, he could swear that sometimes he heard her voice, like it was yesterday, very soft and calm and always so soothing.

He had tried so hard to remember them, because she had told him to, and he had believed her. He had _believed_ that if he could remember every word, every act, every step that his father and his brother had taken, then they would never really die. Maybe he would even wake up one day, and they would be there, just like they always had been before.

But they never were.

The beds were as empty when he awoke as they had been when he had gone to sleep.

And his mother had never believed it either, had she, but she kept saying it anyway. Until the end. She had lived too much in her memories. Maybe the memories of the dead had consumed her life. Maybe she had lived so much in her memories that she had just _forgotten_ that she still _had_ a son, alive and breathing and right next to her, who still held her hand with warmth, who still called her mother and depended on her.

He hadn't forgotten her.

The wall was blank. He had no photos. No posters. Only cream-colored paint and bland draperies. The hours passed by in a dull haze. His head _hurt_ all the time. He went to work, but his hands moved slowly and clumsily. He just wanted to curl up in bed and be left alone.

Alone. She had left him alone.

He spent most of the day sleeping, and the only time he even bothered to pull himself to his feet and stand up was when...

A knock on his bedroom door. A pause, and then a soft, hesitant whisper, "Ludwig?"

He always hoped that maybe...

Maybe.

He did not respond immediately, lethargic and without motivation, and then the door clicked gently open. There was another whisper, this time clearer and maybe more anxious, "Hey. Ludwig? Are you okay?"

He wasn't okay, in the least bit, but he still looked over his shoulder dutifully nonetheless and said, lowly, "Sure."

Because it wasn't a ghost in the doorway; it was just Antonio, and he leaned against the frame, brow low and eyes worried, and in his hand he held a mug of coffee. His lips were pursed in apprehension, and the circles under his eyes were indicators of the stressed atmosphere in which he had been living. He took a step forward, and tried to smile, but it came off as weak and false, and he finally managed, "I brought you some coffee." When there was only silence, he took another step, and added, "You haven't been eating."

"I haven't been hungry."

The thought of eating had not crossed his mind. He just felt sick.

"Oh."

A silence, and then Antonio's voice was strained and thin as he pleaded, "Won't you come down? Just...for a little while? I'm worried about you. Please, Ludwig, I'm so worried. Please come down."

Antonio, always so cheerful and optimistic, was worried. It was his fault.

Tossing his legs over the edge of the bed, he pulled himself upright, for Antonio, only for Antonio, and Antonio's face lit up with relief when he somehow stood up.

A moment of silence, as Antonio smiled at him, and finally Ludwig said, voice barely above a whisper, "I'm going to take a shower, and then I'll be down."

The smile on Antonio's face faltered and the worry was back, and Ludwig knew _why_ , and maybe it was for good reason but he tried his best to smile anyway, if only to reassure Antonio that he would, indeed, be down later.

"Alright," Antonio finally conceded after a moment's pause, and he backed to the door. "Don't be long."

And then he was gone, and when dull thunks on the staircase told Ludwig that he was alone upstairs, he dragged himself to the bedroom door. A glance at the mirror, a hopeful expectancy, but there was nothing beside of him. No wagging tail. Nothing. So he walked through the frame, and passed like a phantom straight across the hall and before the bathroom door.

For a moment, as he gripped the doorknob in his hand, he hesitated.

Sometimes...

He hated bathrooms. Sometimes. Maybe the memories of the dead could come back and haunt you, when you were vulnerable enough.

Furrowing his brow and bracing his feet, he pushed the door open, stepped inside, and flipped on the light, keeping his eyes on the floor. The fluorescent bulb sputtered, on and off, and then finally came to life with that sick glow of radiation that unnerved him as much as the dark did. He raised his eyes.

Red.

Something was dripping on the floor. The light was flickering.

Red.

The bathtub was full to the brim. The tile was wet.

Red.

Everything was red. The air was metallic, and the water was opaque. His head began to pound, and there was a faint screeching in his ears.

Red.

He took a wobbly step forward, and he could swear, for a moment, that he saw something pale and unmoving just beneath the surface of that crimson water—

And then a sharp cry of, "Don't be long, remember!" broke through his static state, and he jumped, looking back at the door with slumped shoulders. He muttered some halfhearted response that was incomprehensible even to himself, and when he turned back around, the bathroom was white again. The bathtub was empty. There was no water dripping. The light was not flickering; steady and bright. White.

He stood still and straight in front of the door, gathering himself, and when he took a deep breath, the air was clear.

Sometimes.

He glided to the tub, and when he reached out and turned the water on, he thought to himself that maybe, sometimes, he let the memories of the dead consume his life just as much as his mother ever had. It hadn't been her fault. Only so much could be taken. He flipped the faucet over, and when the shower above roared to life, he shed his clothes and stepped in, and even though the water was much warmer now than it had been then, he still couldn't seem to pull himself away from his dark thoughts.

Everything had been dark lately. _Especially_ his thoughts.

And that was why Antonio was so worried now, wasn't it?

He just couldn't ever seem to match Antonio's optimism. It was hard for him to see a curve or fork in the road and not worry, worry, _worry_ that there was something terrible around the bend, something disappointing if he chose the wrong path.

Antonio hoped for the best. Ludwig only expected the worst.

The days now seemed as cold and dreary as they had that long winter, and nothing here was turning out like it was supposed to, and everything was wrong, and oh, he couldn't bear any more losses. He couldn't.

It had only been three days since he had come into this same bathroom, and when he had stood before the mirror, watching his pale reflection with a foggy mind, he had held the razor in his hand, gripping it so tightly that it had cut into his finger. What he would have done with it he could not say, for Antonio had stumbled in by accident, and when he had seen the blood dripping down Ludwig's hand and into the sink, he had frozen up in his tracks, and Ludwig had never imagined that cheery Antonio could ever look so frightened.

So _angry_ , and he had stomped his foot and demanded to know what was going on, and Ludwig's lame response had been that he was changing a dull razorblade and had simply cut himself. Maybe it was true—he wasn't thinking right, after all—but Antonio had plucked the razor from his fingers anyway and had said, sternly, 'I'll change it.'

He had changed it, but he had not given it back. Not that day. Or the next. It had been a few days since he'd shaved.

...the water was cold.

A loud bang on the bathroom door pulled him out of his reverie, and suddenly Antonio was shouting through the wood, "You have two minutes before I come in and get you!"

How long had he been here? He hadn't even washed his hair.

"Hey! You hear me? Ludwig?"

"I'm coming," he said, and his voice cracked, but Antonio stopped knocking all the same.

In a daze, he leaned down and turned off the water, pulling a towel off the nearby hook and throwing it around his waist. He stepped out, and then suddenly he was in front of the mirror again, and he was as pale as ever; as pale as his mother, as everyone had always told him. That had been a lie; she hadn't been his real mother anyway.

Everyone lied.

He didn't recall exactly pulling on his clothes or walking out, or going downstairs, but he had, because suddenly he was in the kitchen, and Antonio was at his side, fretting over him and placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Here, look! I made you some breakfast. You need to eat somethin'. Just a little."

He sat down heavily, and his eyes were on the corner of the kitchen floor, not on the table, and maybe Antonio had made the best breakfast known to mankind, but it would sit there untouched all the same.

The floor in the corner was empty. There used to be two bowls there.

There would probably still _be_ two bowls there, except that Antonio had snatched them up and tucked them far under the cabinet below the sink, so that he would not come across them often or by accident. Maybe that was for the best. He had not yet passed from the stage of denial and into the stage of acceptance, lingering somewhere in between. He _knew_ that there would no longer be a weight on the end of his bed, or a scratch at the door, or a lick on his hand while he laid on the couch, or a tilted head by the window, watching people pass, and yet somehow he found himself expecting them nonetheless.

He would no longer walk in the park, but sometimes he took up the leash in his hand anyway. But when he looked down at his side, there was no longer any collar to attach it to.

It was almost astonishing, how long two weeks could drag out when you were looking for something that just wouldn't come. How everything could go downhill so quickly. How one day could complete a circle of merciless misfortune that he thought he had escaped.

But the first day hadn't even been the worst.

The first day.

As if Jones up in his face in the dusty gloom making a mockery of his brave father had not been enough. But to come out into the light and to see the only tie to his _home_ that he had left lying there motionless in the dirty alley. To pick up his best friend in his arms and feel the sickening warmth of sticky blood, and no matter how hard he shook, to see no sign of life. To touch around here and there, and feel no heartbeat.

And then later, having to brace his knees as he lifted his limp dog up in his arms and carried him back home, for the last time.

The last time.

He remembered the first time he had carried that dog.

Springtime. Seventeen years old and completely alone, he had traveled so many miles from his home town all the way up to Hamburg, carrying everything he owned in a small backpack, and when he had gotten off the train and set off down the streets, his passport in his back pocket and his money in the front, he had been so set on buying his ticket to freedom that he had barely even noticed the tiny ball of fluff that was nipping at his heels. Until, that was, it had clamped down on his pant leg and nearly sent him face-first into the pavement. Looking down over his shoulder, he had sent the black puppy a very stern look, and shook him off, shooing him away with his foot and telling him to go off and find his owner. He had set off again, and yet the persistent canine had hounded him, so to speak, and after shaking him loose three more times, Ludwig began to realize that he would not escape.

But when he had reached down and grabbed up the floppy-eared puffball by the scruff of its neck, having every intention of shoving it into someone else's arms and telling them that they had just won themselves a free puppy, their eyes met, and he had foundered. He was alone, after all, and the damn dog had been alone too, and maybe that was why he had tucked it under his arm and carried it along to the ticket booth.

Before he purchased a ticket to New York, he had asked the teller, 'Can the dog come?'

The teller had looked down at the black fuzz with disinterest, and had said, monotonously, 'Sure, as long as you have vaccine papers. And a collar. And you gotta buy a ticket for it too.'

He had nearly set the puppy down right then and there for conveniences sake, but the damn thing had looked up at him and whined, and it was only because he was _so_ lonely that he turned on his heel and walked off, searching the streets of Hamburg for a veterinarian who would give the dog his shot and papers, and a damn collar too.

Hours later, papers in hand, he returned to the booth, and bought his tickets.

On the ship, he had tried to think of a name for his new companion, but, lacking a vivid imagination and that creative spark, he only came up a dull, overdone Blackie. Well, it had been accurately descriptive. And everything had worked out in the end, anyway, because the dog proved invaluable once he had been thrust into the hectic whirlwind of New York, and having something warm and loyal to come home to was enough to make him carry on, despite it all.

That was gone now. He was alone.

Antonio had shown up later that evening, and when he had seen Ludwig, sitting still and silent on the steps, he had spoken, gentle words of comfort, but Ludwig had barely heard them.

It wasn't just the death of a dog.

It was the death of the last family he had, the death of his best friend, the death of the only damn thing that had ever truly loved him for no good reason, the death of the final attachment that he had to Germany, and above all, it was a numbing reminder that everyone that he cared for wound up dying. One way or another.

He was an ill omen. His presence, perhaps, brought misfortune on those he loved. Because nothing bad had happened to the Beilschmidts until they had adopted him. And if the dog had just stayed in Hamburg, he probably would have been picked up by another family, and would still be alive to wag his tail.

It would have been better if he had just _always_ been alone, because that way he would never have had anyone to lose in the first place.

That was what he had been thinking about, that first day, sitting on the steps in front of his dead friend, his living friend kneeling at his side and touching his shoulder, and he had just wanted to go to sleep.

...the first day hadn't been the worst.

It was the day _after_ that he had begun to slip down the side of depression's cliff. He'd always been a little off, had always struggled to find his foothold in life, had always seen himself as quite expendable, but it hadn't ever been as bad as it had then.

He hadn't ever wanted to go out to the bridge before.

He did then.

The day after, sitting in the living room on the couch, clutching money in his hands and staring down at his lap, struggling with the urge to just bow his head and cry. The pangs of loss were mingled with a terrible frustration, because now what did he do? What did he do with his dog? Brave Blackie, who had been as brave as his father, no doubt, and deserved just as much remembrance. He had put a blanket over him until he had found a solution.

Antonio had suggested cremation, like some people did, but the nearest pet cemetery, ancient Hartsdale, was so expensive. Where the beloved pets of rich people were laid to rest, and Ludwig couldn't afford it.

Bills were everywhere, and he was _so_ tired and _so_ depressed, and when Antonio had come inside and found him sitting there despondently on the couch and asked him what was wrong, he had only gripped the dollars and shook his head. He could barely speak. Antonio was patient, like he always was, and the money had been feather-light in his hands, and _oh_ , never had he felt so miserable as he had then when he had finally looked up at Antonio and whispered, thickly, 'This is all I have. Just this. What can I do with this?'

He had been on the verge of bursting into tears.

Antonio hadn't spoken then, not knowing what to say, and had left him alone. Ludwig had sat there in a dumb stupor until late that evening, when Antonio finally returned. Pulling him up onto his feet, they had locked eyes and Antonio had said, 'Go get him. They're ready to go. I'll wait here.'

_They_ had turned out to be a driver from Hartsdale, and when he realized that Antonio had called them and gave them the address and had _paid_ them, paid them everything, the cost of the cremation, the transport, the urn, oh, _god_. Antonio had gone from being merely the other half of an equal partnership up into something that he had neither hoped for nor deserved. In that moment, Antonio had seemed very much like a god.

He did not deserve Antonio, and wished he could have said as much. Wished he could have said, 'Please go away before something bad happens to you, too.' He would only end up hurting him, in the end.

Antonio had not allowed him to try and sputter meaningless words of gratitude, and pushed him towards the door, and he had gone onto the steps and took up the cold blanket that held his dog.

Now, Blackie sat on the mantle. And that was the closest they would ever be again.

The floor in the corner was empty.

Even though his loyal dog was resting and no longer had to deal with the hellish world, he was not so fortunate, and it was harder than ever to get up in the morning. It was as if every shred of motivation he had ever had had been snuffed out.

He didn't even have the strength to blame Jones for his predicament. It would have been easier, to blame Jones for everything. Couldn't even seem to be angry with him, when it was all said and done. He was too numb to feel anger. He just wanted everything to end.

So tired.

It had been this morbid dullness that had led him to foolishly cross into the far side of town, where arrogant Jones had strictly forbidden him from coming into, and maybe he had stepped foot there in the hopes of finding an escape.

Of course, Jones seemed to have an uncanny knack for ruining everything, no matter what he did. He was in the wrong, and he ruined everything. He tried to be in the right, and still he ruined everything. Why couldn't Jones have just done what everyone had expected of him? Christ, he had sought out Jones so that the stupid brat would put him out of his misery, not so that he would try out a new good guy move and make everything all the worse, and so much more awkward, and so much more _difficult_.

His mind was so blurry that he didn't even stop to wonder _why_ Jones had suddenly looked so beleaguered, or what had happened to him to make him kneel down on the street. In all honesty, he didn't much care. Let Jones do what he wanted. Let him do whatever he wanted. Ludwig could stand there and say he didn't _care_. He didn't care about anything anymore. He didn't know why he even bothered to get out of bed now, except for perhaps the desire to repay Antonio what he owed. He could at least do that.

"Ludwig, won't you eat?"

Gazing upward past Antonio's intense gaze, he looked at the clock, and breathed, "I'm sorry. It's late. I have to go."

With that, he pushed away from the table and passed soundlessly to the door, leaving yet another plate untouched, and he kept his eyes straight ahead so that he would not have to see the disappointment on Antonio's face. He was dragging Antonio down with him, and he hated himself for it. Antonio was always trying to be supportive, but he was starting to bend, too. Ludwig could _see_ it, in his shoulders, and his eyes, and his weak smile.

Antonio was wearing down.

It was cold outside. He passed like a wraith through the streets, going to work because if he didn't then he would sit at home and go crazy, and maybe he would do something that would end up harming Antonio more than himself. Paying back Antonio was the most important thing now. The sooner he could do it, the better, because then he could just go to sleep.

And his strange, fleeting, disjointed thoughts continued, even as he pulled on an apron and threw flour on the counter, and as he sat the water on the stove to warm, it occurred to him that if his real parents were still alive somewhere, he shouldn't ever try to seek them out, because they would probably be ashamed of him.

Staring off into the distance, he heard the whirring of the water, and tossed it mindlessly into the bowl that held the yeast.

They probably wouldn't want anything to do with him, anyway.

He sifted together the flour and sugar, cracking eggs on the rim of the bowl as he looked down with a furrowed brow.

They had left him for a reason. Hadn't wanted him then, wouldn't want him now.

Reaching out, he dumped the dissolved yeast into the mixture and began to knead.

Maybe they had seen something hopeless in him.

He rolled the dough into loaves and set them off to the side, covering them as he left them to rise.

Even then.

Pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, he wondered if maybe his real father had been as honorable as his adoptive father. He had wondered it frequently, back in the orphanage, but it had been many years since he had even thought about his birth parents. He had liked to pretend that they had abandoned him for economical reasons. Maybe his father was an honorable man.

Or maybe he was like Jones' father.

Maybe he was a champion of the Third Reich. Maybe he would have domineered and manipulated, if he had raised him, and maybe he would have bullied and filled his head with mindless prejudice. Maybe _he_ would have turned out like Jones. Maybe Jones would have turned out different, too, if he had had a better father. Maybe Jones...

He checked the dough. Nothing yet. Time passed.

Jones had sounded so strange when he had banged on his door. Coming to his door, like that, in a neighborhood he didn't belong in.

Time passed.

He checked again. And now he tilted his head. The dough wouldn't rise.

Maybe, in a different time and place, he and Jones could have been friends.

Unconcerned and lethargic, he threw the wrap back over the dough and resumed his pacing, his thoughts far away from his job, and he did not even notice when another hour passed until his boss had appeared at the kitchen door and observed him with a furrowed brow.

"Hey."

He looked up, startled, and his boss acknowledged the resting dough with a tilt of his head.

"Is that ready yet? I'm starting to get backed up out front. I've only got a few loaves left. You know how busy Fridays are."

A jolt of adrenaline as his heart raced, and he came out of his stupor for the first time in weeks and raced over to the dough, and when he lifted the cover, his heart sank. Nothing. As flat as when he had first set them there, and it was with a terrible churning of nervousness in his stomach that he looked over his shoulder, and the manager had come up behind him, and lowered a stern brow.

"It didn't rise? Didn't you check the temperature of the water before you put in the yeast?"

"I..."

And he remembered, with something that felt like mortification, that he had been so out in space that he had actually let the water _boil_ (that whirring! He should have noticed it), and then he had poured it into the bowl, and of course it wasn't rising now, because all of the yeast had died in the scalding water. Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid_. How many years had he been doing this? He knew better.

His boss sighed, and put a hand on his forehead, and Ludwig bowed his head in shame, face blazing.

"Throw it out," he finally said, shaking his head. "It's useless now. Just throw it out."

There was a silence, and he kept his eyes firmly on the floor, and he had a horrible sense of dread. Embarrassment.

"Listen, you've been really out of it these past couple of weeks. I don't know why, I mean, what's wrong? Family problems? Money problems? You don't ever talk to me, so I don't know. I think you should take some time off. Go home. Take two weeks. For now, I'll just get my daughters to come in and work the kitchen. Get some rest and try to get yourself together. Wish you'd tell me what was wrong, Ludwig. You've been working here for so long and I don't even think we've ever actually talked. What's the matter, huh?"

Humiliated and despondent, Ludwig just shook his head. Couldn't have ever put it into words if he had tried.

Another sigh.

"If you'd just tell me— Ah, hell. Forget it. Go home, Ludwig. I'll have to close shop early today. It'll take three more hours to have another batch ready. Go home. Rest. I'll call you in two weeks, and let you know..."

Let him know.

Let him know if he still had a job, was the unspoken conclusion. Ludwig could only hang his head in defeat and take it for what it was, staring at the floor, and he didn't argue because he had messed up, after all, and it was only fair. Still hurt, though.

His heart was hammering so fast that he felt dizzy, and he remembered with a sick lurch the tiny pile of bills that lay on the end table, and the meager stack of money in his dresser. Two weeks. He could last two weeks.

Maybe.

He trudged home, and when he stepped through the door, he brushed straight past Antonio and up the stairs, and when he collapsed on his bed, he buried his face in the pillow and squinted his eyes. The fog of depression was starting to suffocate him. Felt so heavy all the time. Couldn't breathe. He passed the day laying inert on the bed, and he didn't look up for anything, not even when Antonio came in and sat down beside of him, leaning down to whisper and plead in his ear. Ludwig didn't even hear the most of it, and only one thing Antonio said managed to cut through the mist :

"Oh, _please_. _Please_ don't give up. You're the only friend I have. Please."

He would end up hurting Antonio.

The days afterwards passed in a dizzy blur. The pain in his head intensified. The voices of ghosts were getting louder. Thoughts were ever darker. He wanted to go to sleep.

Antonio's presence was no longer enough. Because Antonio was just one person, wasn't he, and if the entire world was just full of hate and misery then what was even the point?

He lasted the first week. And then, on the eve of the first day in December, he finally pulled himself from his bed, grabbed up his coat, and walked out the door, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

He missed his dog.

Maybe death wouldn't be so bad.

He missed his mother.

It couldn't be worse than being alive, that was certain.

He missed his father.

He was _tired_.

He missed his brother.

He walked stiffly and unsteadily, and he knew that he was far too pale, the circles under his eyes were too dark, his shoulders were too slumped. Still he walked onward nonetheless, no matter how many times he stumbled, and he had eyes only for those whom he sought out. He would find them eventually. Of that, he was certain.

Antonio would be hurt, but only for a little while.

He passed by shops, the glowing lights shining out into the streets and setting them ablaze, and as he was walking the grey skies above opened up, and it began to snow. He didn't feel the cold, didn't feel anything, as he walked against the flow of the people passing, rising up on his toes every so often to search the opposite streets.

They had to be out here. Somewhere.

This way was the best. At least this way Antonio couldn't put the blame on himself, and everyone would tell him, 'oh, it's a shame, but there was nothing you could have done,' and eventually, Antonio would believe it and carry on with his life. Antonio would be better off without him.

The snow turned dirty on the pavement and melted into a dark grey slush. He trudged through it, as the skies turned ever darker, and even the warm glow of the shops could not break through the gloom. The streetlamps were coming on. The wind blew the bare branches of the ornamental trees.

He missed hiking through forests, walking through tall grass and winding in between great oaks, like he had so many times that year, his brother stuck firmly at his side and gripping his hand as he led him off on adventures in the woods.

The streets were thinning as people began to retreat from the dismal weather. He no longer had to duck and dodge around them, and walked straight ahead. His head was spinning with the effort of walking, his chest hurt, but somewhere out in these streets lay another ticket to a different kind of freedom.

He had walked in the forests years after his brother had left him, but it hadn't been the same, and sometimes if the breeze blew a certain way, there was a horrible stench that came in through the trees.

So much death in the world. It was just another part of life.

Loud voices on the other side of the street caught his attention, and when he looked over, the rush of adrenaline in his veins made his stomach churn; there they were. Loud-mouthed and walking with undeserved airs of self-satisfaction, they were traveling in the opposite direction. Either they had not seen him for the grey gloom, or they were in good moods and simply didn't care, but they passed by without incident. For a moment, he could only watch them in stunned silence, clenching his hands together at his sides as they began to tremble, and he forgot to breathe.

This was it.

Once he crossed the street, once he caught their attention, there was no turning back.

Antonio would be better off without him.

Pulling himself from immobility, he sucked in a great breath, and darted across the street, nearly slipping in the icy sludge. He stumbled up on to the sidewalk, and they were already far ahead of him, stuck firmly into each others' sides. He counted them; someone was missing.

Jones.

Oh, thank god, thank god. Jones would have just ruined everything as he always did.

Bracing his shoulders, Ludwig stalked off after them, and with every step he took, he imagined that he was walking closer towards his family, not enemies, because if everything went according to plan then it would be his family that he saw in the end.

Couldn't stand being _alone_.

"Hey."

They didn't hear him for the bustling of the streets. He quickened his pace. They were closer.

"Hey!"

They were laughing amongst themselves, cigarettes in hand and stomping through the melting snow contentedly. They looked at home on the streets, totally in their place in this foul air, belonging completely to the city.

They could keep it.

" _Hey_!"

His voice was much deeper and louder and braver than he actually felt, and they suddenly turned in their tracks, and when they saw him standing there, they froze still.

His hands trembled in anticipation.

They watched him. Everything was silent, and then one of them tossed their cigarette down. It extinguished on the wet pavement, like he would soon, and he took a bold step forward. The snow was falling more thickly than ever. He waited. His heart was hammering in his chest. A strange, lurching sense of exhilaration.

But still, they stood there, watching him with curious eyes and giggling to themselves.

Then the one that had dropped his cigarette threw a hand in the air, and said, lazily, "What? What d'you want? Huh? Go home, Fritz, we're goin' to Broadway. What? D'you wanna come?" Their giggles intensified. "Hey! You know! _The Diary of Anne Frank_ just opened! Why don't you go down and see if they'll let you play a storm trooper?"

They burst into laughter, and he smiled with them, breathlessly.

"Now that's authentic!" one of them howled, and he took another step towards them.

Clever as always. Literal geniuses.

"That's funny," he finally whispered, and his voice cracked with the effort of speaking, and finally they regained control of themselves.

He waited.

And then they turned around, they turned _around_ , saying, "Come on, we got better things to do," and they started to walk off. For the first time in weeks, something broke through Ludwig's numbness.

Anger. Fury.

They turned their backs on him. So many times in the past he had struggled to avoid them, and still they came after him, relentless and vociferous, and now! Now, he was all but throwing himself at them, and they had the nerve—the shameless _audacity_ —to turn their _backs_ on him and walk off, as though he was somehow unworthy of their time and efforts. They had never let him rest, and by god, he would do the same to them now. He wouldn't back off until he got what he wanted.

He walked after them.

"Hey! Where are you going? I was talking to you!"

He had never raised his voice like that. Hadn't ever shouted at anyone in his life.

They looked over their shoulders, and one of them rolled their eyes and waved their hand in the air, as though swatting away an annoying fly.

He sped to catch them.

"Hey! Stop!"

They did, at last, whirling around in unison, and now their confident faces showed their irritation. One of them took a combative step forward, and spat, "Listen! You're startin' to piss me off! Go home, I said! I'm not the mood."

He held his arms out at his sides, and said, lowly, "So do something about it."

Oh, god, he thought he would faint from the adrenaline, and the tremble in his hands passed into his arms, and he could barely hold them up.

They stared at him, brows furrowed and lips pursed, and then, again, they scoffed and turned away. Why? Why? What, had he not invited them in? It wasn't enough, and it was too much, and his head _hurt_ ; he reached out with reflexes he was surprised he still possessed, and grabbed the loud-mouthed punk by the collar. And when he yanked him back and whirled him around, he did something that he had _longed_ to do for years.

He punched him as hard as he could in the face.

There was a muffled cry, and he fell backwards down onto the dirty sidewalk, and Ludwig stood over him, staring down at him as his chest heaved. Damn, had that ever felt good, and if he hadn't been so defeated he might have been proud of himself.

The others stared at him, and then they lurched strangely, and for one horrible, dizzy moment, he actually thought they were going to turn around and run off, and _that_ would have killed him dead right there, because if one simple punch was all he had had to do to prevent the torment of all these years... Woulda been too much.

Then they cried out, and were upon him.

He didn't struggle. Because this was what he had wanted all along, wasn't it? And the angrier they were, the faster it would go.

Someone grabbed his arm and threw him back against the side of a building. The coarse brick was unyielding beneath him. The snow was clinging to his hair. The one that had fallen on the ground was slowly pulling himself to his feet, and his eyes burned with wrath.

Everything was dark. The streetlamps were dull.

He remembered the bright sun from years past, and Jones standing there in the street, watching silently as his father stomped on the old man. It had been bright. The sunshine had not saved Schulze, and maybe it had seemed like night to him anyhow. He was in the dark too. There was never any salvation in the night. It was alright.

Schulze had been the lucky one, all those years ago. Always had been.

He was prepared to die, had been for a while, but couldn't really find the courage to do it himself, not with poor Antonio already looking so defeated. This way was easier, for himself and for Antonio, for Felicia, and maybe he would see his ghosts once more when it was all said and done. Just didn't want them to think any less of him, even after he had gone.

A sharp pain in his stomach. He fell.

Just wanted to see everyone again. Wanted to see everyone that had left him. Wanted to get out of this place, out of this rut, out of this misery. Wanted to go _home_.

A boot in his side burned like fire, and he heard the crack of a rib as it caved under the force. There was a faint whooshing in his ears.

Honestly, maybe it was taking longer than he had expected.

His head exploded with a sharp pain. Everything slowed.

Home.

And then, suddenly, the dark seemed strangely bright, and the sun came out in full force, lighting up the grey streets like a beacon. Everything was a blinding white, and the drifting snow seemed black in contrast. Maybe it was the light at the end of the tunnel. If it was a hallucination, then it was a beautiful one. One that he had always wanted. He thought he heard their voices. A soft, clear barking in the distance.

White.

The sun was white.

A flash of obscurity. A shadow fell over him.

A silence.

The kicking stopped. There was a loud scuffle right above him. Someone was screaming.

Everything went still.

Digging his fingers into the grimy, slick sidewalk, he somehow managed to lift his head, just a centimeter, and opened his eyes, squinting for the bright light.

Someone was standing above him.

Their hair shined golden-white in the crystal-clear illumination, boots braced in the snow and shoulders tensed, and the first thought that crossed Ludwig's delirious mind was that it was his father, coming to see him off. He tried to push off the pavement, but it was no use; he had not the strength even to tell his father 'hello'. How pitiful.

Fire in his head.

The intense light slowly, slowly began to dim, and he could see the dull shine of a leather jacket in the snow. He could hear the first voices breaking through the drums in his head, and his father was taller and deeper-voiced. Maybe it was his brother.

"Get outta here!"

No, wait...

Confusion.

Jones?

Head pounding and hearing that dull whooshing in his ears, Ludwig reached up, after an immense struggle, and grabbed the edge of the building as something warm dripped down his head and into his collar. Pain, dull through the confusion. Aching. Somehow, he lifted his head and squinted his eyes, trying to focus and see, because he had to make sure that he was just _seeing_ things. Oh, god, he had to be seeing things.

He couldn't handle it if Jones were really there.

When his vision cleared, when everything came into focus, when he realized that the magnificent white sun was just a dull blue streetlamp, and the snow was grey and everything else was too, it was not with a relief.

Because it _was_ Jones.

Jones.

No. No. No, no, _no_ , this wasn't right. Oh, _no_.

Jones was standing above him, screaming at those whom he had once called _friends_ , and his feet and hands were braced for war. His jacket was soaked with melted snow, his hair damp and messy, and from beneath him, Ludwig could see the looks of absolute disbelief on the others' faces as they squared off. His clenched fist at his side dripped blood onto the pavement. He had hit one of them, and maybe had been hit in return.

This wasn't part of the plan. Jones shouldn't have been here. Why was he here?

Someone reached out and pushed him, but Jones didn't move. They hissed and spit like vipers, but Jones didn't move. They stomped their feet threateningly, squared their shoulders and clenched their fists, but Jones didn't move. One of them reached out and tried to cuff his ear, but Jones blocked it, and didn't move.

He wouldn't move.

He wouldn't move, and, _oh_ , Ludwig _hated_ him for. Jones ruined everything. Everything.

_Everything_.

Ludwig gripped his fingers into the coarse brick and tried to haul himself up, and succeeded only in falling backwards, and he could only sit, back to the wall, and stare up at Jones through a cloud of abhorrence as he came back from the dark. Blood, dripping from his head down his neck. His chest ached and stung and it hurt to breathe, and this was _wrong_. The black in his vision finally faded, and suddenly he felt sick, as everything piled up and started knocking him a little senseless. Throwing his hand over his mouth to stifle his nausea, he tried again to pull himself to his feet, and this time he made it onto his knees.

White lights before his eyes.

If he could just slink off in shame before Jones turned around...

He couldn't face Jones right now. He couldn't. Couldn't even look at him after this. Didn't understand. Why?

His head was still reeling, and every time he raised himself up, his only reward was a dangerous lurch of lightheadedness. He was forced to stop, and stared blankly ahead as he gathered himself from down on his knees. Couldn't breathe. Was gonna pass out if he pulled himself upright.

A flash of movement caught his eyes, and one of them, the same one Ludwig had hit earlier, had burst forward like a wolf, striking Jones across the face. For a second, Jones staggered, as though he would lose his balance, but then he retaliated, landing his fist in his friend's (sure to be _ex_ -friend now) nose. A stumble backwards, and they all began to step back.

Some friends.

The injured one looked particularly betrayed.

"Jones," he ground out, holding his nose as they all fell back, "Your dad is gonna beat your _ass_!"

There was a thick silence, and then something horrible happened :

Jones reached down, and before Ludwig could even pull away, he had grabbed his upper arm and pulled him up to his feet with one mighty yank. Ludwig's head split open, and even though he wanted to punch Jones across the face too, his body just wouldn't cooperate with his mind.

Dizziness.

Wished he could have done something, anything, anything at all, to get away from Jones in that instant, but he was too weak to move. Too exhausted. Defeated and subdued, he could only bow his head, listening irritably as Jones spat to them, "My _dad_? My _dad_ can't even tell me that he loves me! He's just a busted old man. _Coward_! He always was! Always will be. I don't care about him! And I don't give a fuck about any of _you_ , either! Get outta here! Go home to your old men, too, and tell 'em what cowards they are."

Jones forced his arm over his broad shoulders, and now Ludwig's bowed head was of shame, not exhaustion.

He could not bear this _shame_.

"Go say it to your old man's face!"

Tossed over Jones' shoulder like a damn bag.

Jones scoffed, and added proudly, if not spitefully, "Go tell him yourself! You're good at that, aren't ya? Go back home and snitch like you always do! See what I care. Tell my dad what I did. And while you're at it, tell him that I'm not afraid of him anymore! Tell him I hate him. Tell him he's not a hero. Never was. Get outta here."

Bold statements, no doubt, just from what _he_ had seen of Jones' father, but Jones' confident words were betrayed by his heart; it was beating so rapidly and so furiously that Ludwig, pressed up against his side, could _feel_ it, even through his jacket, and Ludwig suspected that he was, as a matter of fact, still very much afraid of his father.

For all it mattered.

"You're finished, Jones."

"Fuck off," was Jones' unconcerned, if not lame, response, and then they scattered to the winds, and everything was quiet again. He could feel Jones' heart hammering. Maybe that was his own. Wanted to keel over and die from the shame of it all. This was worse than death.

A moment of awkward silence, and then Jones shifted his weight and tried to pull Ludwig up straight, and he said, voice thin and maybe nervous, "Man! What jerks, huh?"

Ludwig's hands were trembling again, in anger, and Jones' were trembling, too.

Jones ruined everything.

A low, shaking whisper in his ear.

"Can you walk? Come on."

Jones took a step forward, trying to pull him gingerly along, and for a dumb moment, Ludwig could only lift his foot and step along, and Jones' obnoxious voice was steadily driving away _their_ voices, and he hated him for that, too. The snow was starting to stick to the pavement, and he could only imagine how this whole thing looked; Jones dragging him along through the gloom, covered in blood as he was, and both of them were scratched and battered and completely crestfallen, and there was no sun anymore.

He could feel Jones' eyes upon him, but he did not look up to meet them.

He had been so _close_.

A sudden question, over the misery.

"What's your name?"

It took a moment for the question to resonate, and when it finally struck him, Ludwig _did_ look up, and was with a furrowed brow that he caught Jones' apprehensive gaze.

Absolute, utter disbelief.

"What?" was all Ludwig managed to hiss, and now Jones was unable to continue the staring contest, and turned his eyes straight ahead, his brow low.

A moment of silence, and then Jones asked again, albeit far more weakly, "What's your name?"

Five years.

It had been five years. And now Jones asked him his name? _Now_? The anger was overwhelming, burning far more than his broken rib and busted head ever could. Hate. Indignation.

He clenched his jaw, braced his feet in the snow, bringing both of them to a halt, and ground out, "Get away from me."

Jones' eyes narrowed in what could have been annoyance, almost as though he hadn't expected such resistance—what, had he thought he would be greeted as a hero? Years of torment forgotten in one moment of weakness?—and he tightened his grip on Ludwig's arm when he tried to pull away.

Confused, as if he didn't understand Ludwig's irritation.

"Knock it off!" he barked, refusing to slacken his grip. "What's your problem? Hold still. You're gonna hurt yourself."

Ludwig gritted his teeth to keep his retort at bay, and tried again to pull away. Fuck Jones and his pity. They could both go to hell for all he cared. He should _never_ have come out here. A mistake. He shoulda stayed _home_.

Jones was dragging him along again, this time not so gently, and his voice was rougher and far more authoritative as he said, "I'm taking you to the hospital."

The hospital? Another stack of bills that he could not pay. Help that he did not want. Rescue that he detested. Salvation that he sought to avoid.

"No," was all that Ludwig finally managed to spit, and Jones' eyes widened in incredulousness.

"You can't even walk! You gotta go."

"No."

The atmosphere was growing ever tenser, and he was sick with adrenaline, and maybe Jones was too.

"I'm not asking if you _want_ to go," was the harsh response, and Jones' eyes were stern and unyielding as he looked over at him, fingers digging into his arm so fiercely that there would no doubt be bruises later. "You're going, whether ya wanna go or not. So shut up and start walking."

The anger, much as it burnt, was suddenly backseat to a horrible wave of what could only have been described as utter despair. Hopelessness. Was there no escape? He felt like crying all of a sudden. He had been _so_ close. Jones ruined _everything_.

He bowed his head, furrowed his brow, squinted his eyes, sucked in a breath, and his voice was thick and quivering as he whispered, miserably, "I _hate_ you."

Jones' rapid pace slowed into a crawl, and even though he did not speak, his grip on Ludwig's arm lessened, just a little. There was a pause, as the ache in Ludwig's head was ever intensifying, and then Jones finally spoke, and even in his beaten state Ludwig could hear the defeat in his voice as he said, "Yeah. I know. I... I know you do."

A short, dreary hesitation.

Then Jones sped back up, but when they approached the hospital, Jones dragged him down another street, and Ludwig felt the first prick of relief. Short lived, because suddenly he could see the Urgent Care down in the distance, and maybe it was cheaper, and maybe it was faster, and maybe Jones meant well, but Ludwig didn't want any doctor poking and prodding him. He did not want stitches, and if his broken rib was digging into an organ, or an artery, then he did not want anyone discovering it and fixing it before it could kill him. Why didn't the dumb son of a bitch understand? Couldn't he see that Ludwig had gone there because he had _wanted_ to?

Yet Jones dragged him through the door of that clinic nonetheless, and stood there beside him in the lobby as if nothing were really out of the ordinary. Ludwig felt the horrible burn of shame on his cheeks as Jones scratched out the paperwork clumsily, leaving most of it blank, attaching a deposit on the clipboard as he shoved it back through.

Could someone die of shame?

This was all wrong. Wrong. He _hoped_ someone could die of shame, because it was enough to make him want to crawl under a rock somewhere, and if they could then he was pretty damn close to falling over.

The awkward time passed in a blur, and Ludwig tried to shut down his mind as he sat on the cold table and Jones answered the nurse's questions with false information. Fingers poked his chest, his stomach, his back, he felt the chill of the metal stethoscope above his heart, and the whole while Jones stood in the corner, arms crossed above his chest, eyes unreadable; his foot was tapping away.

It occurred to Ludwig, absurdly, that maybe Jones was just biding time, so that he would not have to go home and deal with the wrath of his father. Jones looked miserable, too.

With every minute that passed, Ludwig felt increasingly numb, as he had days prior.

Lethargic.

Maybe it hadn't been the right time. Maybe he had been too hasty, and now, because he had been impatient, he was in an even worse predicament than before. Should have waited a little more. Should have planned it better. Couldn't stand this. Not this. It was bad enough, owing Antonio. But to owe _Jones_...

Maybe it hadn't been the right time.

Next time, he would just forgo his need to hurt Felicia and Antonio less and go out to the bridge.

His chest burned.

The doctor came in, with thread and needle, and when he felt the tugs on his scalp as he began to stitch, Ludwig looked up and caught Jones' eyes, and Jones tried to smile, weakly. It fell halfway, and then Jones only shrugged a shoulder. Ludwig could only stare at him, unmoving and unblinking, and finally Jones dropped his head and stared at his feet.

God, god, what could ever be said between them? It was too _awkward_. Just too awkward.

The hours passed in silence, the doctor gave him an injection for the pain of his cracked rib, and then he was sent off, and when he staggered off towards the door, Jones was running after him.

"Hey, wait!"

He didn't, looking straight ahead and pretending that he did not hear. Wouldn't Jones just leave him alone? Hadn't he done enough? He just wanted to go home and forget this miserable thing had ever happened.

Suddenly Jones was at his side, and he straightened his glasses as he tagged along like an annoying puppy, asking, "Do you want me to walk you home? You might fall."

"No," was his monotonous response, and Jones' face fell a bit.

"Look," he began, and still he walked alongside him, and he seemed to be struggling for words, "I know that... Well, that is... _Damn_ , I don't even know what to say to you! ...are you gonna be alright?"

Ludwig didn't respond, and Jones was becoming increasingly agitated at his silence.

"Well? Aren't ya gonna say something? What's the matter with you, huh? Why did you go out there? Why won't you talk to me?"

What was there to say? He did not have any particularly nice thoughts running through his head, and any words that he said would come off as rude and insensitive.

"Well?"

It was better to stay quiet.

"Won't you even tell me your name? Mine's Alfred, if you wanted to know."

Ludwig didn't, and kept on staggering along. He was almost home. Just a little farther. Jones was grating his nerves.

Then, when his house was in sight, Jones reached out and grabbed his arm, preventing him from moving, and their eyes met in a moment of intensity. Couldn't really stand the feel of that hand on his arm, and Ludwig was happy to glare at Jones to let him know exactly how he felt. Jones opened his mouth as if to speak, and then lost his voice, apparently getting the message loud and clear.

Ludwig didn't bother trying to free himself from Jones' grip; wouldn't have the strength. He might have been able to ride it out and stand there until Jones had wandered off, but then Jones went too _far._

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a handful of bills, and then he reached down and grabbed Ludwig's hand, forcing the money inside before he could pull away. He was silent, shuffling his feet, and Ludwig could only stare at the money in numb silence.

It would have been enough to sustain him for months, such money, and Ludwig finally asked, tersely, "What _is_ this?"

The snow fell.

What was all of this? All of this? Didn't get it.

Jones tucked his hands into his pockets nervously, and Ludwig could barely hear his voice for how low it was when he whispered, "For your... For your dog. I didn't mean for that to happen."

The words cut him like a knife, and the anger was back, stronger than ever, because even when he thought he was _helping_ , Jones was still so completely arrogant and self-centered that he _really_ did, in fact, believe that the world revolved around him. And he assumed that Ludwig blamed him for the death of his dog because, of course, _he_ was responsible for everything!

Foolish. Proud. _Idiotic_.

Gripping the money so hard in his hand that it crumpled, he met Jones' eyes, as the fury stung in his veins, because he had never really blamed Jones—

_Don't touch that dog_!

—not _really_ , because Jones did not control everything, even though he thought that he did.

Wrath was what he felt then. It was the most insulting thing Jones could have done, even though some part of him must have meant well.

Finally, Ludwig found his voice, and muttered, voice wavering as he tried to control his rage, "Is this— Is this what you think he was worth to me?"

Jones' face fell. Crumpled, like paper, and he ducked his chin down in what could have very well been as much shame as Ludwig felt. Couldn't stop himself, though, he was so angry.

So angry.

Ludwig drew his hand back and tossed the money in Jones' face, hissing, "Keep it! I don't want anything from _you_." Then he whirled around when Jones' head bowed in defeat, and he stalked off up his steps as fast as he could, clutching his side as his fracture stung. And when he reached the door, when he yanked it open and stepped inside, he turned, just for a second.

Jones stood there in the snow, shoulders slumped and staring blankly ahead, and the money was lying there on the sidewalk, soaked and forlorn, and for a horrible moment, Jones looked as utterly defeated as he himself had when he had stood before the mirror and held the razor in his hands.

He looked up, somehow, met Ludwig's eyes, and whispered, over the flurry, "I just...wanted to help. Sorry."

Then he hung his head and turned and walked off like a ghost down the street, leaving the money behind on the sidewalk. His footsteps in the slushy snow made no sound. Ludwig watched him go, and after a moment, Jones was gone.

Jones. His name was Alfred.

The anger was ever subsiding, with Jones out of his sight and as the painkillers flowed through him, and Ludwig finally retreated inside.

As he shut the door, back in his home that he had been certain he would never see again, he sat down on the couch and stared ahead at the wall, and maybe he wondered, against the pain in his head, if either of them would ever lead normal lives. If either of them would ever be happy. If either of them would escape the ghosts that weighed them down.

Jones was a fool. So was he. Jones made everything worse. So did he. What a stupid man. Ludwig was stupider. Maybe he and Jones were not so different as he had first imagined.

He said that he just wanted to help, and maybe, somewhere deep down, Ludwig believed him.

Ha. In a different time and place, he and Jones could have been friends.

His name was Alfred.


	8. Gold and Silver Waltz

**Chapter 8**

**Gold and Silver Waltz**

_She opened, but to shut excelled her power._

_The gates wide open stood._

He had always hated school. Obnoxious teachers, obnoxious students (that exceeded even _his_ standard of obnoxiousness), pointless homework, useless facts that he would never use in real life, more crushing humility and blows to self-worth than he had _ever_ needed, and he had been so upset at how he looked in the mirror in his suit that he had ditched his prom date in the rain and refused to go entirely.

He had _hated_ school.

And if there was one thing that Alfred had hated more than school, it was reading, and when his English lit. class had actually sat there and read _Paradise Lost_ , he had wanted nothing more than to bury his face in his arms and cry, because it was _so_ boring, and _so_ long, and he couldn't even _understand_ it, and _why_? Why did he need to read this? He had spent most of the time with his pencil in his mouth and staring off into space, until the teacher had called on him, once, to read a passage. He had sat there, clenching his pencil, palms sweaty with nervousness, and as he fumbled his way through the literary dreg, mispronouncing everything and stammering, everyone snickered at him, and he had wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and die. But then Alice, sitting in the desk behind him, had cried, lowly, 'Don't listen, you sound great, Alfred!', and, finding courage under her praise, he had swallowed and carried on.

That one line had stayed with him, even all these years later.

He didn't know why.

_The gates wide open stood._

It meant—well, he _thought_ it meant—the release of hell upon the earth. Maybe he had understood it wrong, but that was what made sense to _him_ , and maybe that was why he had remembered it so clearly.

He knew more than he cared to about hell on earth. He had spent more time just sitting there watching than he had trying to close the floodgates. Not that he could have, anyway.

Those had been his strange thoughts that night, as he had laid there on the floor below Matthew's bed, arms crossed behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, vision blurry without his glasses and black eye throbbing from his scuffle, still feeling the rush of adrenaline in his veins.

He was almost amazed at himself, if amazed was an appropriate word.

Horrified might have been a better choice, because he had been an idiot, pure and simple, but despite it all, he was almost proud of himself.

It had been more than he had ever expected.

To pick up his enemy off the sidewalk, to pull him to his feet, and to walk down the street with him, side by side, like they were equals, had been something far beyond exhilarating. Maybe it hadn't been the best of circumstances, as they both looked like they had just stepped out of the middle of a tornado, but that hadn't really mattered. It had been surreal, almost, to hold the German against his side, to feel him there, like he was a friend. To stand there with him, like comrades, had been so strange that he wondered several times if he was just dreaming.

The whole time he had watched the German, he had taken in everything about him, all those little observations that he had been slowly making these past weeks. How serious his eyes always were, how unshakeable his attitude, how calm his demeanor no matter what, how deep his voice was when he finally said a word here or there, and how he was everything that Alfred was not.

How his eyes, golden in the summer sun, had been nearly silver in the ghostly streetlamps.

They were opposites.

Maybe the German hadn't spoken to him in a friendly manner, maybe he had only stared at him with those sharp eyes, and maybe he had pulled away from his touch, but it was more than Alfred had expected. He hadn't been punched in the face, at least. He hadn't been punched, no, but he had gotten something worse.

_I hate you._

He _knew_ that the German hated him, of course he did, but to hear him _say_ it...

It stung.

He had only wanted to help. But god help him, he was so awkward and tactless, and as he laid there, thinking back on it, he could only furrow his brow and try to count out exactly how many mistakes he had made in such a short interaction. Too many for one hand.

He was dumb. Always had been.

Even so, as Matthew had explained it to him when he had crawled in through the bedroom window and collapsed on the floor and recounted the tale breathlessly, progress had been made, and maybe it was even a _good_ sign that the German had told him that he hated him because that meant that there was _some_ kind of connection. He didn't understand it, not quite, but Matthew said that if someone tells you that they hate you, then they've had you on their mind for a while, and maybe reconciliation was much closer than it appeared.

It would have been worse, Matthew had said, if he hadn't spoken at all.

Well. Maybe Matthew was just trying to make him feel better, but it was working, and it was comforting to think that maybe things hadn't gone as badly as he had first imagined.

Matthew had looked _so_ proud, and right before he had drifted off into sleep, he had whispered down, "You did so good, Alfred," and Alfred could only smile and clench his pillow tightly. As Mathew finally fell asleep, he stayed awake, and replayed the evening over and over again in his head. Next time, he would do better. Next time, he would be sure of himself, and would take the reigns more smoothly. Next time, he would find better words to express himself. Next time, maybe the German would shake his hand.

Next time.

Feeling hopeful and slightly brave, he finally closed his eyes and let himself drift, as Matthew snored gently above him, and the night passed slowly and restlessly.

The snow finally stopped. The morning broke cold and dim, behind a heavy cloud front.

While Matthew slept, he pulled himself to his feet as the first glow of light broke through the curtains, put on his glasses, and silently lifted the window pane, slipping out into the freezing air before everyone else woke up.

New day, new opportunities.

And yet despite the warm throb of pride and satisfaction that had sustained him through the endless night, as soon as he leapt into the snow-covered streets, leaving behind the warmth and comfort of Matthew's bedroom, there was something else running through his veins.

A dull, icy dread. Because there was only one place to go now.

Home.

Matthew's small, quiet house, full to the brim with small, quiet Matthew and his small, quiet siblings and his small, quiet parents, just couldn't sustain and harbor big, loud Alfred, and Alfred would never even consider asking to stay, even for just a week. They could not support him, and he could not thrive in such a fragile environment. A house of mice, when he was a lion? No way.

Even though he longed to pack up his things and move in with Francis, who always told him that he was more than welcome, he just couldn't. Francis lived alone, in a large, empty house, on the edge of the city, and even though it would have been a perfect environment for him, how could he move in with him, when his father already resented Francis so? How could he bring more hatred upon Francis, already long-suffering under his father's disdain? Francis, who had cared for him when his father had been at war, who had not even received a 'thanks' from his father, and had received instead many angry calls for 'spoiling' Alfred and turning him into 'a big crybaby'. And if Alfred were to move in with him _now_? His father would never get over it. How many angry phone calls would Francis receive then?

He couldn't do that.

This whole situation was his problem. Not Matthew's, and not Francis'.

He had to go home, sooner or later.

One day, he would find his own place, but not right now. He had spent so much time living in his youth that he had never taken the time to learn basic survival skills. How did he find a house? How did he read and sign papers? What did he need? How would he sustain himself? He couldn't do anything on his own. His father had always taken care of such things.

It would have been easier, maybe, just to grab up his things and run away, but where would he go? Where could he possibly go? He could not live on the streets; he was too proud.

It was a terrible fact, one that made him sick, but he was still reliant upon his father.

Well, he could bear living in his father's house, as long as his father knew that he was no longer pressed down under his boot, and maybe things would be better now that his father had heard about what he had done. Surely he had, by now. No doubt that old Ryan had called him up on the phone in the dead of night, relaying the whole sordid event that his son had told him about, and Alfred was certain that every single word of it was now running through his father's head. And his father was waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

He would let him know that he wasn't going to be controlled anymore. He could think for himself. He could make his own decisions.

But his father was _waiting_.

That was why he had diverted from his path and crept in through Matthew's window after he had seen the German home, because it was just too soon. He needed a night to cool off. At least one night.

His house stood in the distance, and the very dim streets seemed suddenly foreboding. He had wanted to avoid this, but he couldn't put it off forever. Had to go back in someday.

Gathering his courage, he came up to the stairs, and took a step forward. He expected a beating, alright, there was no denying that. Another step. He expected a bad one.

The doorknob gleamed in the pale light.

He expected, even, to be put in the hospital, mad as the old man was.

The windows were frosted with ice.

He certainly expected a beating. It would never come. And yet he would realize later that somehow, somehow, what he _did_ get was worse.

Again.

He stood in front of the door far longer than necessary, bracing his feet and shoulders, and repeating in his head over and over again exactly what he would do when he burst in through the door. He had to be assertive, of course, and fearless, and when he pushed open the door, he would barge inside, stomping his boots as loudly as possible, chin held high, and when the old man stood up he would hold his ground and say, 'Yeah, I said it! I'm not afraid of you anymore, you old bastard!' and then maybe his father would be so taken aback that he would just let it go.

...unlikely.

Nevertheless, he would hold his ground. He would be brave. He wouldn't back down. He wouldn't go down without a fight. He'd done too much now to just let it go and forget about it all just because the old man disapproved.

With these bold thoughts in his head, he inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, and pushed open the door, plunging through the threshold.

He was home.

Stomping his boots as he had planned, he marched past the kitchen and into the living room, and for a moment, as he came to the first feel of carpet, he paused in hesitation.

The room was dim. The bulb overhead was off, and the only light in the room was from the television, ghostly and luminescent as the static crackled on a blank channel. The curtains were drawn. The air was cool from the morning; the heat was off. And yet despite the unnerving crackling of the static in his ears and the too-bright radiation of the television, he took a step forward, because he could see, over the back of the couch, the back of his father's grey hair.

Clenching his fists and puffing his chest, he resumed his march of war, and came around the side, until he was standing straight in front of the television, casting a shadow over his father. And for a second, his father only stared up at him, blearily, and then Alfred realized, with a slumping of his shoulders, that he had been drinking. A lot. An empty glass on the table, an equally empty bottle next to it, and he sat there, slumped forward, hair disheveled and shirt wrinkled, elbows resting on his knees, and Alfred only managed to purse his lips and furrow his brow.

A newspaper was strewn on the floor. The phone was off the hook in the kitchen. He could hear the dial tone over the static.

He could smell the whiskey in the stale air.

He meant to reach back, and turn off the television, but before he could manage his father had looked up at him, and for a horrible second, Alfred was not sure if he even recognized him in his drunken state.

Pitiful.

"Hey, there," he began, slowly, uncomprehendingly, and Alfred met his eyes, and then he smiled, and a light came on from behind the haze. "Oh, Alfred! I thought you were someone else. I was talking to the colonel, earlier, about what we're gonna do about those damn Panzers down near the river, but...damn if I don't know where the hell he went off to."

A colonel? Panzers?

Alfred had heard so many stories like that before.

_Down the river, we took 'em out and pushed 'em back past the bridge, into the town, and then we set fire to the barn_ —

A drunken flashback, no doubt.

He sighed, and could feel his boldness slowly creeping out, and the combativeness was going too, under his father's blurry gaze. Shaking his head, Alfred could only fall down on one knee before the coffee table, and take up the empty bottle in his hand as he muttered, wearily, "Oh, dad. You gotta stop drinkin'. There's no one else here."

His voice was stern, and his father only sat there, silent and still, and the disappointment that he felt was overwhelming everything else. Even when he was expecting to stand up for himself against a beating, when he was expecting to voice his thoughts, his father always just let him down.

And when he reached down and grabbed up sheets of the newspaper, there was a deep, soft, almost mournful whisper above him, "Oh, Alfred. They're gettin' ya, aren't they?"

Frowning, he looked up, and his father was staring down at him with a low brow, fingers clenching the fabric of his pants. For a second, Alfred could only gaze upwards, and then suddenly his father fell back into the couch, and buried his face in his hands.

Alfred pulled himself up to his feet.

...they?

The room was too cold.

And all of his previous sure thoughts were gone like smoke, when his father's fingers crept down until finally his eyes peered above them, and it struck him, instantly, the _hurt_ there. He had not expected that.

"I didn't believe it," his father suddenly began, and his voice was muffled and thick by his palms, "when old Ryan told me what you'd said. I didn't believe it."

Alfred could only stand straight before him, shoulders and feet braced, and he kept his brow low, trying to look braver than he felt, and his father's hands fell down into his lap, and his eyes were so betrayed and accusative and so _hurt_.

"Oh, Christ, I didn't believe it! That my son would ever say those things, behind my back. That after all the years I spent out there fightin' evil, walking through those towns and droppin' down into those fields, Jerry and Panzers everywhere, watchin' all my friends die right in front of me, that my own boy would call me a _coward_. My boy, that I raised. You coulda called me anything, Alfred, anything you damn well wanted, but _that_ word..."

Coward.

He _had_ said it, hadn't he? Coward. How strange. He had called his father _hero_ not so long ago. His father _was_ a coward, but maybe he was too, for tossing him aside like so much trash.

_My boy, that I raised._

There were fathers who dumped their sons in orphanages after the deaths of their mothers. There were fathers who kicked their sons out of their houses, and into the cold, ruthless streets. There were fathers who _killed_ their sons.

His father had raised him. Alone.

He was a son, and sons were bound to honor their fathers. And for a horrible moment, there was something twisting in his stomach that he couldn't quite place, and even though he had spent these past weeks abhorring everything his father _was_ , to see him like this, being cut to pieces by his own son's words, was almost too much. His father had raised him.

He _hated_ him.

But he had to love him too.

Oh, god help him. What could he do?

And that was why, when his father fell down onto his knees on the floor, snatching Alfred's hands and pulling him down, too, he could only let himself fall. It was so strange, to sit there on folded knees before him as his father's warm hands engulfed his own, and almost surreal, and suddenly his father's eyes were boring into his own with such excruciating intensity that he was unable to look away.

Where had his bold words gone, now that he needed them?

He couldn't move. He was frozen under his father's presence.

Letting his father grip his hands and sway in closer, he felt that awful burn of conflicting emotions when his father leaned in and whispered, voice fervent and sure and always so confident, and so _convincing_ , "Alfred, you'll never understand. I hope you never have to know... I spent those days out there under fire so that you would never have to know what it's like."

Caught under that voice that had ruled over his life since he had been a child, that voice that was _always_ in his head no matter where he was, that voice that had always told him that it was right and _he_ was wrong, and he had always believed it, and now he could only whisper, breathlessly, "What what's like?"

He was almost entranced.

His father swayed for a moment, and Alfred thought that he would fall over drunk, but then he came back down, and his eyes burned with clarity and intensity as he continued, eagerly, "Evil! If you ever see it, you won't forget. Have you ever—have you ever stood there, face to face with a man, just like this—" he leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched "—and _knew_ that when you looked into his eyes, you were just lookin' right into _evil_? Just evil? And no matter how scared you were, you had to keep goin' through and shootin' down the planes and burnin' the towns, because they're all _evil_ , Alfred. You think you know what a hero is? You think I'm a coward, but just wait. Wait until you look into his _eyes_ , Alfred, and you'll see. There's nothin' there lookin' back at you. Just evil. And it takes a real hero to shoot a man that's on his knees, because you know that if you let him up he'll just go right back to his old ways, and as long as you let any of them live, then the world will never be safe. If you let him up because he says he has a son at home, then you're just ruinin' the future of your own son. They can't be good, when they were born bad. They're not people, Alfred, don't you see? If you have the courage to see it and admit it. _That's_ a hero, Alfred."

Silence. A terrible silence.

His father's balmy hands squeezed his own, and he was smiling zealously, and Alfred could only stare back at him with wide eyes and a low brow, feeling sick. And for a moment...

A hero.

Hell, for a moment, Alfred had almost believed it. He almost believed it, and all he could see in his mind was his father in the American uniform, pushing through tall, damp grass in France, and everyone in Europe greeted him as a hero, and no one would ever question him, no one would _ever_ be so ignorant as Alfred and call him a _coward_. He had almost believed it. It had felt so much better to be proud of his father. To think that his father really was a hero. It had felt so much better.

Yeah, sure. Better? Nah. _Easier_.

The tall, damp grass in France faded into the dirty, snow-covered streets of Manhattan, and instead of his father, he saw the pale German, and instead of glory and pride, there was only despair and anguish, and when the German had been slumped there beside of him, when his arm had been around his destined enemy to hold him upright, he had felt _good_. Oh, god, he had felt _good_ , even if the German had told him that he hated him, even if the whole thing was crazy, even if they hadn't spoken, even if there was still such animosity in the air, it didn't matter, because he had felt good about himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he had _really_ felt good about himself. Not for years.

Somehow, even though listening to the old man was easier, he just couldn't. Felt like he'd gone too far.

Hearing it all over again, after he thought he had broken the bonds, was mortifying. Listening to this again, after he had picked the German up off the street like he would a comrade, he felt like he had just turned around and betrayed the both of them again by even giving his father his ear. His father's words were so sincere, and so certain, as though he were stating an indisputable fact of life, that Germans were just evil, and god help him, he had almost believed it.

Again.

He had been swept into the glory of war. He had been naïve in his childhood. Felt so damn stupid now, kneeling here in front of this man and even giving him the time of day.

How had he ever believed it? Germans were evil; how had he ever been so impressionable? How had he had gotten roped into that?

The German's anguished cry as he held his dead dog to his chest. The quiet resignation in his stance when he had all but offered himself to death out there on the street. The anger and hurt in his eyes as he had thrown the money in Alfred's face. How could anyone like _that_ be evil?

The static crackled behind.

His father was still smiling.

"I've seen it all, Alfred. I'm your father. I'm the only one that'll look out for you, in the end. They're tryin' to trick you. They're smart, they always were, but you just can't listen to them. Don't let 'em get you. Just look at him, and you'll know."

Oh Jesus, how had he listened to this in his youth and _swallowed_ it? How had he sat like this before, staring into his father's eyes, and how had he heard his words and believed them and been so _proud_? Feeling a rise of horror, he opened his mouth, and he wanted to say that he _had_ looked into the German's eyes, he _had_ , so many times, and he had never seen evil there. He had only seen himself reflected in those pale eyes. Lost. Scared. Alone. Hopeless. _Helpless_.

Only himself.

He wanted to say it. Didn't get the chance.

"Oh, Alfred. Don't let 'em pull you in. They lie, they all do. Don't turn your back on him, don't ever. He'll get you, in the end... Don't ever turn your back on him."

And then his father collapsed backwards against the couch, passing out, and Alfred fell back too, his back against the television stand and clenching his fingers in his hair.

In the end, _he_ was a coward.

So many scenarios he had played out in his head, and yet when he was finally face to face with his father, when he was given the perfect opportunity to raise his voice in protest, he had choked, like he always did, and let himself get swept out into the tide. He didn't even try to swim.

If he had been brave, like the German was brave, he would have said that it takes a real hero to release a fallen enemy, and it took real courage to hold on to humanity in the rages of war, and that evil was only what you made it to be, and that you could win every medal there was and _still_ be a coward because you had given in to the dark, and that heroes and evil walked a fine line that sometimes blurred, and sometimes you could spend so much time hating genuinely evil people that you just wound up _becoming_ them.

He wanted to say it, but he couldn't ever find his voice.

He sat down at the kitchen table later on, and said, to absolutely no one, "You miserable old bastard."

Coward. He was no better, though, so his complaints were pointless.

He didn't leave the house that day; he was too ashamed.

It was his punishment, to sit there with his father until he finally rolled over and came back into consciousness hours later. It was his burden, to reach down and grab his father's arm and pull him up to his feet. It was his penalty, to sit and stare unseeing at the television later as his father picked up the phone in the kitchen and chatted away to his friends, so casually.

He deserved it. He had let himself down, worse than his father ever had. He had stayed silent. Maybe that was worse, because the worst things in history had happened because people had just stayed silent.

Matthew had been _so_ proud.

The evening set in, the sun began to lower, and then suddenly his father stood before him, blocking the light of the television, just as he had done earlier in the dawn's first light.

"Hey, you gonna come help me make dinner?"

Alfred barely heard his father's voice through the white noise in his head.

"Alfred?"

"Sure," he muttered, crankily, and his father shifted his weight.

"I got the grill goin' out back... You want the kitchen?"

He shrugged, noncommittally, and his father cleared his throat.

The air was tense.

"Alfred?"

And when he finally looked up and met his father's eyes, there was something strange there. Almost like his father was anxious. Apprehensive.

"Alfred," he began, as Alfred quickly averted his gaze and stared straight through him towards the television, feigning deafness, "Look, I know you've been actin' out lately. I don't know _why_ —"

Acting out. Saving a life was just acting out. Ha.

"—and I don't know why you're doin' what you are, but damn... I know you're only doing it to piss me off. Like I said, I don't know why. I guess all boys like to have it out with their old men every once in a while, but I think it's startin' to go too far. I think it's time you settled down, and got all of this nonsense out of your head, so you'll stop embarrassin' the both of us."

He was an embarrassment, was he? That was alright. He would rather be the embarrassment of the family than the champion.

"Anyway," his father continued, sternly, "I'm having the Kirklands over for dinner. You need to settle down, and that girl is as good as any. And who knows, maybe she can reel you in a little bit. You're gettin' out of control. It's a good match with her. Her father was in the RAF back in the day, you know. They've got money, too, so it won't be so hard, for you two to get a house somewhere. Settle down. I'm sure that we can all come to an arrangement."

An arrangement. He almost shuddered at the thought, and it was with narrowed eyes that he crossed his arms and scoffed, bitterly, "Do what you want. See what I care."

And for a moment, with the disrespectful tone lingering in the air, his father's fist contracted at his side. Alfred tensed mechanically, but in the end, his father only sighed and stalked off, and he could hear the back door slam.

He only sat there.

...great. His father had found another way to domineer his life. An arrangement. Let his father do what he would. Alfred would find a way out of it, eventually.

Suddenly, though, swallowing his pride and running away into the streets didn't seem so bad.

Pulling himself to his feet, he passed mindlessly into the kitchen, and as he shuffled about this way and that, chopping potatoes and tossing vegetables into pots, all he could see was the German, and that look in his eyes when Alfred had hauled him to his feet.

He had just gone and let him down again.

And the gates stood as wide open as they ever had.

Out in space and disheartened, fulfilling his kitchen duties with mechanical movements, he did not notice the passage of time, and barely heard the ringing of the doorbell, as he tapped his fingers on the counter distantly.

He came back down to earth when his father was suddenly behind him, shoving at his back.

"Hey! Are you gonna answer the door or what?"

Grumbling a response, he furrowed his brow and trudged to the door, and for a moment, as he stood before it, he hesitated, staring at it with slumped shoulders and a sense of despair. Ah, hell. He didn't want to open it. He didn't want to go through this terrible awkwardness. He was sick of pretending. But the doorbell rang again, and his father screeched his name from the kitchen, and with one deep breath, he reached out, and opened the door.

"Good evening!" came two simultaneous, polite greetings, and Alfred only stood there, staring out at them.

He opened his mouth, and lost his voice.

Alice was smiling widely, hands clasped before her stomach and watching him. She was always _watching_ him.

"Hey, there, Arthur," his father cried from the kitchen, and Alice's father gave a tiny wave from the door, where they still stood, because Alfred was too dumb and numb to move and let them pass.

Alice didn't seem to mind standing before him, and when she really noticed his appearance, she clicked her tongue and lowered her brow in what could have been concern.

"Oh, Alfred," she crooned, in that airy, haughty voice, as she stepped forward, reaching out, "Look at your eye! Oh dear."

She ran slender fingers down his cheek, and he flinched back from her, as his dad barked from behind, "Yeah, he's a ruffian, you know. Always causin' trouble."

And he flinched again, as Alice's eyes lit up and her smile turned into something like a leer, because somehow he suspected that she _liked_ men that caused trouble, and oh, _god_. How embarrassing.

"Come in," he finally grumbled, politely, when his father dug an elbow into his back, and he held open the door.

They passed, and her eyes followed him as she went by, and for a horrible moment he wanted nothing more than to dart right out the door before they could stop him. But he didn't. He didn't know why. Instead, he followed behind them, and everything seemed foggy and dull as he sat down clumsily at the kitchen table, staring blankly ahead as Alice stared at him from the side.

Always watching him.

He had thought he had left Alice behind the day he had graduated. How could he have ever known that she would still pop up into his life every so often, and always with that look in her eyes, and a quiet determination in her voice? She was almost inescapable.

His father had never understood his reluctance to initiate a romance with her.

He glanced at her, and nearly shuddered.

Alice, always the lady, was groomed immaculately, nails clipped and clean, fresh-faced and very lightly rouged, golden hair freshly razored above her shoulders (she had always preferred to be edgy and different, and had never worn her hair up the popular beehives and poodle cuts of the other girls), beads of pearls around her neck, and wearing a pale green, high-collared dress that perfectly matched her eyes. She was pretty—maybe cute was a better word—there was no denying that, but, she was so...

So...

Weird. _Boring_. She lived half of her life up in her head, and god almighty, she was just _so_ boring that Alfred couldn't even be around her without having to prop his head up in his chin and fight off the urge to yawn. And on the odd occasion that she wasn't sucking the life out of him, she was creeping him out.

Like now.

Now here they all were, at the dinner table, and Alice was sitting so primly, her hands tucked politely in her lap, and she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. _Always_ watching him.

He suddenly wanted to scream.

She smiled at him. He cleared his throat, scratching his collar awkwardly, and tried to keep his eyes everywhere _but_ her, because god knew she didn't need any more encouragement.

They ate in relative silence, and every so often Alice would look up and send him a random compliment on the quality of his cooking, and he only stared at her until his father would clear his throat, and then he would grumble a weak thanks. He picked at his food, not in the least bit hungry, and let his mind wander as his father chatted with Alice's amicably. Alice would reach out for salt or pepper, and would brush his hand lightly. He barely noticed.

Alice's eyes were the color of grass. The German's eyes were the color of the sky. Grass came and went, and died in winter, and fell to cities. The sky was constant. Endless.

He would rather that the German watched him than Alice, if only because somehow that intense, icy gaze felt a little less overwhelming. Less disconcerting.

Alice knew where he lived. That was why she showed her face so frequently. He knew where the German lived. Why couldn't he do the same? Just show up unannounced. Would he ever have the German over for dinner?

Like normal people.

He frowned as his fork tapped into his plate, and glanced up at his father, who was babbling away.

A German over for dinner? Over his father's dead body. He pushed the thought from his head, and heaved a sigh. Alice turned her head to him now, and leaned forward, whispering gently, "You look tired, Alfred."

He _was_ tired.

"I'm fine," he grunted, and she reached out, placing her elegant hand over his own.

He froze up, and he would have pulled away if Alice's father hadn't looked over then, and broke into a sunny smile. And then he leaned into Alfred's father, and they began to whisper fervently to each other. Could there have been _anything_ worse?

He could not bear to see them there, deciding his future for him.

He wanted to wrench his hand away and say, loudly, 'Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not looking for a long-term relationship,' and the matter would be settled, but when his father's eyes continued to fall on him, he only furrowed his brow and stared down at the table.

It was strange, almost, how he had held the German at his side, grabbed his arm, walked at his side of his own volition, and yet one brush from Alice made him want to turn tail and flee.

Overwhelmed and feeling suddenly claustrophobic, he pushed back from the table and stood up, saying, lowly, "Excuse me. I've gotta go get some air."

And to his chagrin, Alice leapt up with him, and cried, "That sounds lovely! Daddy, you just carry on. I'm gonna go walk with Alfred for a bit."

"Alright, dear," was the fond reply, and Alfred's father smiled too, and his fingers contracted in the table cloth as she reached over and placed her palm on his arm.

Well. That backfired.

Irritated and aggressive, he reached out and grabbed her hand, roughly, and yanked her unceremoniously to the door, gritting his teeth as he growled, "Come on, _dear_."

His head felt like it would explode.

He pushed the door open so hard that it banged against the brick outside, and as soon as he had dragged her down the stairs and into the streets, he released his grip and whirled around and stalked off, having every intention of leaving her in his dust as he roamed the streets to cool off.

She had other ideas.

"Alfred! Where are you going?"

She followed behind him, pulling up the hem of her dress in her hands so that she could match his furious pace, and he could hear her heels clicking on the pavement.

He hated her persistence.

"Alfred, slow down!"

He hated her relentlessness.

"Oh, look, I'm going to get my shoes dirty!"

He hated her haughtiness.

"Alfred! Are you listening?"

And by god, he hated the way she said his name, too.

_Owl_ -fred.

He continued to ignore her as she followed behind, but somehow, who knew how, she finally caught up to him, and grabbed up his arm. He glowered down at her, and tried to shake her off, but her grip was strong.

She was still smiling.

"Get _away_ from me!" he snarled, shrilly, as he tried in vain to wrench his arm away, but she held fast, like a horrible vice, and he was reluctant to pull any harder for fear she would stumble and fall. She was still a girl, after all, and he didn't want to hurt her. No matter how annoying she was.

A silence, and she smiled up at him, almost smugly. As though she knew that she would always win, in the end.

He bowed his head, and sighed.

"Let's go for a walk."

He was stuck.

Keeping his eyes on the ground, he trudged along through the dirty snow that was left from the night before, and Alice walked cheerfully at his side, speaking eagerly away to him about who knew what. He was not listening. He didn't even know where he was going.

The sun was ready to set, glowing a vibrant red low on the horizon. The clouds were pink and purple overhead, and it would have been worthy of gazing at, if he had been in the mood for it.

"You've been so quiet lately, Alfred! It's not like you. I'm worried about you."

Worried?

Alice rarely seemed worried. Maybe it was sincere concern, because he knew (even though he hated admitting it) that she really _did_ care about him, whatever else he could say about her, but the feeling just wasn't mutual. She had just never managed to snag his attention.

"I can tell, you know, when you're worried. I know everything about you."

She wasn't interesting enough, and she could be as abrasive as he was at times, and very crass. Their personalities clashed too awkwardly.

"Don't worry Alfred, things will start getting better soon, now that our fathers are talking things over. Oh, I'm so happy, you don't even know. Can't you just imagine the future? Everything is going to turn out just as I had imagined it would!"

She tittered to herself, her grip upon him arm tightening, and he felt a horrible squirming in the pit of his stomach when he tried to imagine what was going on inside of her head. She was imagining a grand house, no doubt, with a green yard and white picket fence, and surely she was imagining restless children running around this way and that as he struggled to gather them up, and she would only stand there and laugh as he grabbed one only to have another slip away, and they would live the rest of their lives in a daze of monotony and crushing normalcy, and there would never be any excitement, and she would chide him and always speak to him as though he were inferior in some way, and he would just sit there and take it because society said that he couldn't _leave_ her—

Never.

He didn't want what she wanted. He didn't want to be tied down for eternity to someone he could not love. To someone that he couldn't even relate to. To someone he couldn't be himself around. She wasn't a bad person. And there probably wasn't anything wrong with her. There were many men who were interested in Alice. There wasn't anything wrong with her. She had just never held his interest. Not like...

They approached a crosswalk. A flash of gold in the setting sun.

Alfred looked up, instinctively, and froze in his tracks.

There was another pair waiting for the light to change, and, just like him, a man stood there with a pretty brunette girl clinging to his arm, tugging him as enthusiastically as Alice was tugging him, pressed against each other and silent. And even though their backs were to him, he _knew_ it was him. He knew it.

The German.

Alfred could only stand there, stuck to the spot, because part of him wanted to rush forward and touch the German's shoulder and ask him how he was feeling and if he could walk alright and that it was too soon to be out of the house and that he should be resting and that he was _sorry_ for being such an idiot, but at the same time...

Evil.

He was too ashamed to move, because he could hear his father's voice in his head, and he had let his father say those horrible things without distancing himself from them. There was no way the German would know, of course, but even so. He had sworn he would not do this anymore. Instead, he had stayed silent.

As though sensing he were being watched, the German shifted his weight restlessly, and then looked carefully over his shoulder. There was something that looked like trepidation on his face, and maybe guilt, as though he were doing something he should not, but when he met Alfred's eyes, the look faded into something that could have been relief.

As if, perhaps, thinking to himself, 'Oh, it's just him.'

Then he turned back around, and straightened his shoulders, and stood there as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The girl on his arm looked back too, curiously, and when she saw Alfred staring, she grinned shyly and buried her face in the sleeve of the German's coat in embarrassment.

Hardly an intimidating pair. Alice was scarier.

Finding his nerve, and encouraged by the lack of a dirty glare or a frown, Alfred took a great breath, and found his feet. His heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid he would faint, but he held his chin up high nonetheless, as he took a bold step forward, and fell in beside the pair.

The cars passed.

They did not look at each other, keeping their gazes straight ahead, but he could feel from the air alone that they were fully aware and alert of each other. And when he finally dared himself to glance over, he felt suddenly abashed.

The German stood there, straight and tall and looking completely dignified, despite the bruises and cuts that were visible, and even though his chest must have hurt like hell, he never flinched, even as the girl at his side gripped and tugged and jostled him. That girl that he had seen somewhere, even if he could not quite place it, and it was obvious from the look upon his face that she had dragged him out here against his will, and yet he stood there patiently nonetheless, and let her do as she would. He was pale and looked more fragile than Alfred had ever seen him in the past, as though he had been struggling through some great crisis, but still his chin was up.

His hair and eyes were glowing orange as the setting sun caught them.

Evil.

Evil?

He wished that he could just make his father _see_. That this man, standing here so calmly and proudly, quiet and tranquil and accepting, could never be anything like evil. This was not the soldier that his father saw in his head, in uniform and covered in dirt and screaming with rifle in hand. This was not something to fear. There was nothing evil here. If only he could make his father see.

The girl kept peeking at him from behind her human shield, and Alfred tried to gather himself. Alice was tightening the grip on his arm as the other girl stared at him, and when she finally ducked out her head and chirped, shyly and awkwardly, "Hello!", Alice was squeezing him so fiercely that he was afraid his bone would snap in two.

Before he could sputter a response, the German had lowered his head down and whispered, lowly, "I don't want you to talk to him."

He felt that dread squirm, but when the German straightened back up, there was no malice upon his face. The German glanced over and caught his eye, and there was no hatred there, either. Only calm, and maybe resignation.

It was encouraging. Alfred found his voice.

"What are you doing?" he finally managed, and his voice was sure and strong despite the lurching of his heart.

For a second, there was no movement, as the girl peered around the German's arm and as Alice peered too, and then the German shrugged a shoulder, nonchalantly.

"Waiting for the light to change," he said, voice deep and low and unconcerned, and Alfred could not help but smile.

"Yeah. Me too."

They fell silent, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alice leaning forward, observing the other two with an extremely critical eye. Alice, so high-class and well-bred and haughty, and when she caught the eye of the girl clinging to the German's arm, she looked her up and down so intensely that the brunette flushed a deep red and reburied her face in the German's sleeve. The German looked over and glowered down at Alice in annoyance, and she straightened up quickly, looking alarmed under his intense eyes. Alfred would have smiled if he hadn't felt so sick (because he knew what it felt like to be caught under that gaze) and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed just to keep his chin up, as his father's terrible words rang in his ears.

Alice's father had probably fed her the same hatred.

"Alfred," she suddenly hissed in his ear, "Do you _know_ them?"

Her hiss was not as subtle as it should have been, as if _knowing_ them would be something _ghastly_ , and he could sense the German stiffening beside him, and knew that he was being judged on his response.

Here was a chance, however small, for redemption.

It was with a strange, malicious irritation towards Alice that he drawled, slyly, "Oh, _yeah_! Yeah, yeah, we—we've known each other since _way_ back." As an afterthought, he added, "I thought you knew everything about me?"

For a second, she foundered, and then she only gave a thin, "Ah!" and fell still. He glanced over, and for one absurd moment he thought that maybe the German looked a little...sad. Vanished quickly enough, but somehow it gave Alfred a boost.

Maybe things weren't as bad as he had imagined. Maybe Matthew was right, after all.

He smiled at the other girl, and it was with a much surer voice that he said to her, "Hey! Thanks for getting him out for once."

She peeked out at him, and now she was smiling, eagerly, and the German sent Alfred a narrow-eyed look that might have said something to the effect of, 'please don't encourage her.'

Alfred did the opposite. He never did listen very well.

"Say! You should bring him out more often."

Now the German met his eyes, and behind the annoyance and intimidating sternness, there was something else, almost like curiosity. Bewilderment, even.

Alfred would not have blamed him if he had suddenly turned on his heel at any point and stalked off, but he never did, and only stood there, with a silent patience that was almost inhuman, as the brunette clenched his arm and bounced on her heels, smiling brightly at Alfred now that he had spoken to her. Forgetting the German's request, she crooned, in a friendly voice, "I know! He never wants to come out anymore! He used to go out with me all the time!"

She was tugging his arm relentlessly and fervently, and the German only stared ahead, and gave a soft sigh that was barely noticeable. "I don't want you to talk to him, remember?"

So patient.

The girl gave an exaggerated gasp and covered her hand with her mouth, and then sent Alfred a strange look, almost as if she was accusing him of tricking her somehow.

Alfred shrugged a shoulder and, to his dismay, the light changed, and the street came back to life as people passed quickly.

A movement at his side.

His heart sank. He had not wanted this moment to end. He felt so much better. The guilt from the morning was ever dissipating, but if the German left, then he was tossed back in the dark of his own mind, and left alone with Alice.

"Hey," he called without thinking, as the German began to stride forward with wide steps.

He had thought he would have more time.

He waited.

He could feel the horrible anxiety in his chest, but the German finally paused in his tracks, and even though he didn't look back, Alfred understood that he was listening. A deep breath to steady himself, and Alfred said, as coolly as possible, "I never did catch your name."

They stood still, as the other people crossing passed them by, and then the German reached up, waving his hand in the air carelessly as he rumbled, smoothly, "I didn't give it."

...right.

"Maybe next time," Alfred called, expectantly, and the German shrugged a shoulder.

"Who can say?" was the enigmatic response, and Alfred could only put his hand on his hip and shake his head to himself.

Stubborn bastard. Kinda liked that.

Clenching his fist enthusiastically, he braced his feet and cried, "Next time! For sure."

A silence, and then the German snorted and walked on, head held high, and Alfred walked too, as Alice tugged him along. And this time, he let her lead him where she would, because suddenly he was walking on the clouds rather than snow, and he barely even noticed that she was there.

Next time.

The German was lost in the crowd, and that was alright, too, because they had spoken. Not a conversation, not by any means, but just a few words. Like normal people. Like people who had never had the gates stand wide open before them. It wasn't what he had hoped for, but it was more than he had expected. They would not seek out to hate each other anymore. That was enough. Maybe Alfred had proven himself. Or maybe the German was just too forgiving, in the end. Maybe a little bit of both.

Alfred wasn't a saint. The German wasn't evil.

His father be damned; he could decide for himself who kept his company, and this man was who he wanted to stand beside at the moment.

Every time got a little better. They weren't friends, not by any means, but they weren't exactly enemies anymore. Somewhere in the middle.

The German's pretty eyes had glowed orange in the setting sun.

The horizon was suddenly not quite as dark as in days past.

Next time.


	9. Lagunen-Walzer

**Chapter 9**

**Lagunen-Walzer**

Christmas.

It was almost Christmas. Another week until the most anticipated holiday of the year, and then another week and the changing of the year would be upon them.

Ludwig was glad for it. What a _miserable_ year it had been.

The worst of all the long, drawn-out years that he had been here, by far. He would not miss it when it fled, nor would he look back upon it, because doing so would have made him wonder why he was even still bothering. The slope had become so steep. _Surely_ there was nowhere to go but up. He tried to be optimistic, but in all reality, Ludwig considered it a fair toss-up between two drastically different outcomes. It could go either way. Why pretend that nothing else could go wrong? Why sugarcoat everything?

He would not hold his breath.

The days were growing shorter. Colder.

The new year would tell.

Even though he forced himself out of bed in the morning despite the gloomy part of him that said not to, even though he put on a brave face and did not hang his head, this determination to push forward through the darkness had not been born completely from his own mind and heart, and he would be the first to admit that it had been the strength of others that had given him the will to do so.

Others.

Of course for others. Why would he ever even bother to lift his head from the pillow if it there had not been anyone urging him to?

Someone like Antonio, always at his side and always concerned, ready to reach out and take upon himself the weight of Ludwig's troubles if he ever needed a moment to stop and breathe, without ever asking for anything in return, and always quick to point out to him that he had a friend who would go to hell and back for him.

Someone like Felicia, so eager to see him and take his hand when she could and to offer to him the words of affection and encouragement that he had been missing for many years since his mother had gone, and who had been coming around so frequently that Ludwig could not help but wonder if Antonio had had something to do with it. If so, it didn't matter so much.

They kept his head above the water. To remind him that there was someone out there who would _miss_ him if he just gave up. And that was why he had to keep standing. For others. For Antonio, whom he owed. He kept pushing onward through the night for Antonio. For Felicia, whose gentle hands gave him courage in the face of darkness.

Or, at any rate, that was the explanation that he repeated over and over to himself, no matter how many times necessary, and whenever _that_ thought tried to slither into his mind, he quickly shot it down. Maybe too fervently. Because he did not want to think that maybe there was someone else out there who was pushing him on through the dark. He found himself engaged quite frequently in mental arguments with himself.

Someone else. Someone _else_?

...nope.

No? Really?

Nope.

Gunned down. Moving on.

These little spats with his own damn mind were becoming more frequent, and he concluded that it was just because he was in the middle of a shakeup and wobbling around through such an unstable environment. When things changed, it was only natural to feel a bit agitated.

He had weathered these weeks of uncertainty, and put up with Antonio hovering over him every second and fussing about him and all but shoveling food down his throat. Not exactly necessary. He found that he had been eating on his own lately. Maybe for someone else.

Appetite aside, Antonio had nitpicked over other aspects, asking him every few hours of every day how he was feeling. His response never changed.

'Alright.'

The stitches in his scalp had completed their goal a week ago, and it had been Antonio, with that sometimes overwhelming protectiveness, that had pushed him down onto the sofa and gently pulled the threads out. It had been Antonio that had poked intrusive fingers into his chest and prodded his ribs with a critical eye, and no matter how many times Antonio asked, 'How does that feel?' his answer never changed.

'Alright.'

Everything was just 'alright'.

But that seemed to satisfy Antonio. Antonio never asked exactly _how_ Ludwig had acquired his injuries, and Ludwig suspected that he really didn't want to know anyhow. Ludwig would not have told him the truth at any rate, even if he had asked. He could not admit to Antonio that it had been entirely intentional on his part.

Antonio would be disappointed.

Antonio smiled at him and nodded his head, but he wasn't stupid—Antonio didn't believe him. It was obvious by the way that he had all but moved in. Ludwig could barely even remember the last time he had come down the stairs and _not_ seen Antonio bustling in the kitchen or asleep on the couch, and Ludwig was _grateful_ for it, because when the owner of the bakery had called him back those weeks ago and said that his daughters had taken so well to working with him that he just didn't _need_ Ludwig anymore ('Sorry! Nothin' personal, if you ever need some references god knows I'll tell 'em nothin' but the best!'), it had been only Antonio's presence there that had prevented him from sinking down against the wall and just crying.

Antonio just patted him on the shoulder, and said, 'So what? There are other jobs.'

Easier said than done. After five years there, the thought of change was frightening.

Change.

He felt sick at heart. Nevertheless, he had put on that same old mask of impassiveness the next day, and swallowed his pride, pulling on the best clothes he had and walking out into the European block with a sense of dread. His funds were dwindling. It was no easy task to go _begging_ , not for someone like him, to whom pride was really all there was left, but what else could he do?

Sometimes, you just couldn't do everything alone. And that was why he had stopped before the door of the little German store that had been on the corner years before he had ever been here, and probably years before he had even been born, and after a moment of deep breathing and gathering up his dignity, he lifted his chin and pushed through the door.

He was not there to shop, and when the owner tossed at him that friendly old greeting that he always sent him ('Hey, Lutz, married yet?'), Ludwig only gave a weak smile, and fell still in the middle of the floor in a moment of apprehension and nervousness.

He didn't want to ask. Not to this man, grey-haired and strongly built and rather gruff, who had come here as soon as the first great war had ended with his wife, and who had settled down on his own two feet and had done everything by himself, even opening his own store despite living in this country when the feelings of aggression had burned a thousand times stronger than they were now.

Ludwig felt embarrassed even standing here before him just _knowing_ that he was going to ask. A strong youth in the prime of life, asking an elder for help. Shameful.

Perhaps sensing his worry and no doubt seeing the persistent shuffling of his feet, the owner rested his chin in his palm, elbow settled on the counter above the cash register, and sent him a strange smile.

"What's up? You look like you've gone and broke something!"

His pale smile waned a bit.

"Ah. It's just! I just wanted to..."

"Yeah?"

He trailed off, caught under the elder man's expectant stare, and then finally he blew air through his teeth and muttered, lowly, "You don't need any help around here, do you, Rudolf?"

A silence.

He expected questions. But there were none.

Maybe the old man could just see how down and out he was, maybe he could see the desperation within him, or maybe he could see how much it _hurt_ to have to ask at all. Whatever it was, he saw _something_ , and after a moment of observing Ludwig up and down, he removed his elbow from the counter and dropped his arms at his side, and finally said, after a drawn out silence, "Well. Hope you can start tomorrow."

Ludwig stood frozen in place, and then he relaxed in a flood of relief.

Oh, thank god! It was not ever what he had wanted to happen, to lean upon good, stable people like a crutch, but he had no choice, and he would do everything he could to make sure that their kindness was repaid when he was steady again, and then some.

"Thanks," he began, earnestly, "So much, I'm really—"

"Don't mention it," came the swift interruption, and the old man sent him a stern, if not fond, look, and added, "Ten o'clock, Lutz."

He nodded his head, and swiftly retreated, feeling lighter and somewhat jittery as the adrenaline of anxiety slowly faded.

He returned home with a high chin.

Antonio had only said, 'See? Everything always works out alright.'

How could he know that? It had just been a lucky break. Who could have known? Antonio's optimism and bright attitude baffled him.

But it didn't matter. The next day, he had another reason to pull himself from bed in the morning, and looked forward to making himself useful, if only a little. The heaviness in his chest was ever so slowly lifting. His head didn't hurt as much as it had. It wasn't so hard to get out of bed in the morning. Not when he had somewhere to be.

A job, even if it wasn't under any circumstances that he had ever wanted. In this little shop, here at the mercy of others.

It wasn't like he was _really_ needed, not really, and it was understood on all parts that he would only hang around until he had found a permanent solution, but he was too proud to seek a loan and everyone knew it, and besides, Germans were supposed to look out for the other Germans. That was just how it was. The Italians kept watch over the other Italians, the Scots supported the Scots, the Poles helped the Poles and the Ukrainians stuck up for Ukrainians.

The Germans would look out for him, now, in his time of need, and spare his pride.

Now it was almost Christmas, and even though he had not found another place to work, he couldn't keep that strange little twinge of something that almost felt like hope from within his chest. Not really hope. Not yet. Just a sort of paper-thin faith, that maybe something would work out for him.

One of these days. Next time, maybe.

It was nice here. Quiet. Calm. Friendly.

Working here was pleasant, surrounded on all sides by familiar commodities and seeing people that he actually knew, if only by sight and name. Pleasant and yet somehow heartbreaking, and _god_ , how looking at the pretty packages of wrapped Stollen and the skillfully spun Baumkuchen and the intricate gingerbread houses made him so _homesick_.

Homesick.

Sometimes that old opera aria played on the radio, in those rare, calm moments when the wife had control of the tuning button.

_'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,_

_Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! Home!_

_Sweet, sweet home..._

The longing was unbearable. Miserable.

Hearing the owner and his wife laughing in the kitchen as they stood over the hot fire, ladling batter upon a scorching roller and sounding so _happy,_ and he just stood out front, listening to them crooning to each other and feeling dejected as he stared down at the counter and remembered things that would have been best left forgotten.

He remembered holding his brother's hand and passing through the bustling streets that wonderful Christmas, and dragging them both to a stop at every bakery so that he could gawk at the cakes within, and he had stated, quite ambitiously, that he would master the art of making Baumkuchen, and his brother had only tossed back his head and laughed, chiding him for being silly.

_You sound like a girl!_

And yet, even so...

Even so, his brother had gone out the next day and spent hours with a hammer and saw, creating a surprisingly efficient spit, even if they had used it as nothing more than a fancy base when playing a game of tag. And when his brother was gone, even all those years later, he would sit outside and stare at it, too disheartened to ever even attempt to use it.

Homesick.

Where had that dream gone? So badly he had wanted to do it, and yet now he couldn't even bring himself to just step inside the kitchen and ask them to teach him. That was all he had to do. Just ask.

He couldn't. That desire had died along with his brother.

Too many memories attached to these simple things. Little things that were just normal to other people. Ordinary things. Sights and smells that came upon him out of nowhere, and he was so _homesick_ that he could have just bent over and vomited or, at the very least, sniveled in his sleeve miserably. Didn't. Couldn't.

Push forward.

At least he _could_ stand here.

A glimmer of dawn far on the horizon, breaking through the night. Once he got back on his feet, once he found a new job, he could try to glue the pieces back together. Save money. Pay Antonio. Gather up his pride. Carry on. And then there was still someone else to pay, if more by perseverance than monetarily. Even if it left a horribly bitter taste in his mouth to admit it.

Someone else.

_Him_.

Ha. Yeah, _him_. He seemed to be everywhere now, in these past few weeks. Everywhere. It was almost _eerie_ , actually, how Ludwig could scarcely turn his head without seeing _him_.

Jones.

Alfred.

What had happened on that snowy night? What had shifted so drastically? Because it was just...

Surreal.

Every time he went out. Every time he looked over his shoulder. Every time he went grocery shopping. Every time he stopped at an intersection. Like clockwork. And every time, Alfred would saddle up next to him with surprisingly stealthy movements for one so clumsy, and always the same question.

'It's next time! So, what's your name?'

_Surreal._

He neatly deflected every attempt with another evasive, 'next time', even though the next time, he knew he would just say, 'next time' once again, and the time after that too, and sometimes he wondered if he would ever gather up the courage to tell Alfred his name. It wasn't purposeful teasing or even just spite, and he didn't know _why_ it was so hard to just answer the damn question, but every time Alfred asked, his throat closed up and he couldn't seem to speak. What harm could it do, to tell Alfred his name?

None, that he could foresee.

But he couldn't do it. Too personal. He was not ready to be so intimate with Alfred, and the thought of hearing his own name pronounced in that loud, confident, arrogant voice was somehow almost _daunting_. Like if Alfred knew his name, then they would really be linked somehow, and god! The thought of ever being _anything_ with _Alfred_ was just...

Overwhelming. He wasn't ready for that.

Whatever Ludwig's reluctances were, Alfred seemed to be leaping over his own hurdles with alarming speed. How? Another thing that baffled him. How was Alfred moving forward so quickly?

Ludwig was just being left behind, it seemed.

Sometimes, in the busiest times of the day, when the streets were full of charging pedestrians, a shadow would fall before the glass front of the shop, casting a darkness before the sun. When Ludwig looked up, someone was standing there, stark still amidst the bustling crowd, an unmoving star against the whirling universe, and from within the blurry hustle, would offer a small wave. Not really a wave. A weird, lurching of a hand, like he _wanted_ to wave but always lost his courage half-way, and it was really just a very rapid hand raising and lowering. An exceedingly awkward, fumbling gesture. Anyone around him would have thought he was merely swatting away an annoying insect. Ludwig knew better.

Golden hair alight in the pale sun. Glasses reflecting like beacons. A guarded, tentative smile. That same ugly jacket.

Alfred.

It had been bizarre enough to stand next to him those weeks ago at that light, to hear the tremor in his voice that he sought so desperately to hide as he kept himself so straight and stiff as a board that it would not have been particularly surprising if he had just tottered over, and it was almost mind-boggling to see him now, so frequently outside this little shop that he had no business being near.

Five years, and Ludwig could have counted on one hand the number of times that Alfred had dared to venture into this side of town. And yet now, Alfred came nearly every day.

Ludwig was fairly certain, sometimes, that he had just finally lost his mind at long last and was seeing things.

Wished that were so, but unfortunately Alfred was very real, and kept coming around, kept standing there in front of the shop, kept waving, and kept staring.

Ludwig suffered these annoyances as he felt he was expected to : silently, and with a lifted chin of complete indifference, quickly breaking Alfred's nervous gaze and finding something far more interesting to look at, placing his palms on the counter and straightening his back and trying his best to look absolutely snobby and untouchable, even if he felt the farthest thing from it.

Sometimes, Alfred accepted the rebuttal and fled quickly, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow in the mist. Sometimes, he accepted the rebuttal more gracefully, and tucked his hands in his pockets and ambled off slowly. Alfred just lingered there sometimes, no matter how hard Ludwig tried to ignore him. Staring through the window, arms loose at his sides and looking for all the world as though he just wanted to come _inside_.

And it _frightened_ Ludwig, because Alfred coming inside this shop was utterly unfathomable to him, and he was worried his brain might actually malfunction if it ever happened.

Alfred wasn't supposed to be here. He did not belong on this side. Alfred had his own side of town. Why didn't he stay there, where he belonged?

_His_ side. Right. They shouldn't have been on each others' sides, and that rather haughty girl that sometimes hung on Alfred's arm was always quick to remind him of it whenever she happened to be around when they met, and the look she sent him was enough to make him feel like he was back in that dreary orphanage all over again.

Looks like _that_.

Oh, why did Alfred make everything so difficult?

Ludwig ignored him, and would hold his tongue. As long as Alfred stayed outside, it was alright.

And today would be no different.

As the morning passed slowly into a pale afternoon, he tidied up various strewn items as he waited for some business. The grey skies threatened to snow. People passed by, lost in their own worlds. Where did everyone go all the time? Always bustling. Rushing. What was out there for them? He could only imagine. He never moved along. Still. In the same place. Stuck in the same ruts.

"Hey, Lutz!"

Starting upright, he turned his head, and barely reacted in time to catch a bag being chucked at his head. Grabbing it and looking down, the owner barked a short laugh, and said, "Thought I'd give ya somethin' to do! Why don't ya set up a gingerbread house on the counter? Make the time go by faster. People don't really come by on days like these."

Pointing up to the grey sky absently, the owner sent him a short smile, and then disappeared into the back, and Ludwig stood there with a furrowed brow, and then looked down dumbly at the bag.

Set up a little house? It had been a long time.

Retreating reluctantly to the counter, he cleared a space, and set the bag down. And then he just stood there, staring down at the bare pieces of gingerbread and prettily-colored candy, and feeling disheartened all over again. He didn't want to set it up, because he had done that once in another life with someone beside of him. No one here now. Didn't want to.

But he would do it nonetheless, because he had been told to, and it was with heavy hands that he opened up the bag and took everything out and set to work, pulling out a piping bag and uncapping a tub of icing. His house would probably end up being the ugliest one in the store. He had never really been good at such things. Drawing pretty shapes with icing and flattering positions of decorations had never been his forte.

Bracing his feet, he bent down, resting his elbows on the counter, facing the great window, and set to work.

As he imagined, it was not easy, and it was certainly not pretty.

Time passed by, as quickly as the owner had promised, and he was so absorbed in piecing together his little candy house that he didn't even notice when the clock struck five. Tongue sticking out in concentration and praying that the whole damn thing wouldn't just collapse the second he left it, he attempted to create a chimney, and when he had stuffed a great fluffy ball of cotton candy inside of it to serve as smoke, a shadow fell over him.

A shiver. A strange sense of foreboding. The shadow lingered there, and even though Ludwig didn't look up, somehow he knew.

Well, here we go again! Taking a deep breath, he forced his hand steady, and looked up. And what he saw was exactly what he expected. There he was. Again.

Alfred.

He was standing there, hands tucked in his pockets, and Ludwig froze still, peering out from above the roof of his half-completed house, and for a moment he was too numb to even feel mortified as Alfred stared him down.

Their eyes met.

What was all of this? Why was he trying so hard? What was the point? None of it would matter, in the end. They could never be friends. Not friends. They could never be looked upon as equals. So why was Alfred trying so _hard_?

Standing there, like he always did now, looking somehow hopeful and yet dismal at the same time, and Alfred tried to smile, even if it never reached his eyes. Just a phantom, wandering lost and alone through the streets, with no one really to go to, and that was why he stood here, maybe. There was no one else to go to. Hadn't Alfred alienated all of his 'friends' in that moment of aggressive bravado weeks ago?

Wandering aimlessly.

Well. Maybe they could never be friends, but god, Ludwig could understand _that_ feeling.

Alfred stood there, shoulders loose and glasses crooked and hair flying all over the place in the wind, standing still and alone as the crowd passed by all around and as the sky above threatened to burst, and for a moment, he tilted his head, like a contemplating dog.

Ludwig felt a bit ill. Oh, was he finally going to come in? He wasn't ready for that.

They stood still.

And then...

Alfred _waved_ at him.

Maybe something had emboldened him, or maybe someone had encouraged him (who would do such a thing?), or maybe he had finally just gathered up his own nerves after so many years, but whatever the reason, the result was the same : the flimsy hand gesture turned into a _real_ wave (a real, good old fashioned wave, big and energetic, like the Yanks gave each other sometimes), and then Alfred broke into a wide, sunny smile.

As if everything were right in the world.

_Surreal_.

Alfred stood there, his first real wave obviously considered a great success to him, and he was beaming so brightly and so widely and so _sincerely_ that Ludwig found himself unable to look away. Frozen, like a deer.

Alfred had never smiled at him like that. No one had ever smiled at him like that. Like he was a long-awaited destination at the end of a very long journey. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Intensity. Alfred kept smiling, and now even the bustling crowd itself seemed a million miles away, and Ludwig felt a horrible squirm in his chest that he couldn't place. An unusual feeling that he couldn't think of a name for.

Alfred turned his eyes down, and looked at his candy house, and after a moment of observation, Alfred looked back and gave a quirky thumbs up that probably looked more confident than it really was. A muffled, distant cry of, "Nice!" through the glass and crowd and roaring cars and honking horns.

For a second, everything fell still.

Alfred beamed.

And something strange happened.

A tug in his chest. An almost forgotten sensation upon his face. A twitch of his lips. A passing of _something_. For an awful moment, he just stood there, leaning above the gingerbread and staring out of the window, and it was horrifying to him how _helpless_ he felt, unable to move and caught under Alfred's gaze and dangerously close to losing his composure, although in what way he could not imagine.

Maybe that was the worst part. Not knowing _how_ his mask would fall, more so than knowing it _could_. If he fell apart in a fit of exasperation and annoyance and anger, then that would have been alright. Childish, no doubt, and immature, but alright. But if what if it was worse? What if he accidentally gave away some kind of insecurity, or some kind of weakness? Something that Alfred might pick up on?

Time froze up.

Alfred made a movement towards the door.

Horror.

And then a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and Ludwig jumped so hard that he nearly sent his gingerbread house tumbling straight to the floor. A last second hand caught it steady, and when he whirled around, eyes wide and maybe looking guilty, the owner was staring at him.

"Hey, not too bad!"

He stood for a dumb second, mouth hanging open and twitching, and then he shook off the stupor and managed to sputter, awkwardly, "T-thanks!"

"Hell, at least it stayed up! More than I can say for mine. That's why the wife does them all. Oh, hey, here, I got somethin' for you!"

A bag was shoved somewhat forcefully into his free hand.

"Had a lot of extra stuff since today was so slow. Thought you might wanna take these home. Just some bread and cakes. I know you like that stuff."

A hand reached out and pinched his upper arm.

"Better eat it, too! You're gettin' kinda skinny, Lutz. Used to be bigger."

He tucked the bag under his arm and muttered words of gratitude, trying to appear as impassive as possible even as his heart thudded in his chest. A blank smile, and the owner, satisfied, gave him a quick pat on the shoulder and then began his retreat to the back.

"When you're done with that, you can go ahead and go home."

"Alright."

Alone and standing still, he stared ahead, and found that even though he was no longer under threat of being caught doing something he should not, he still could not seem to turn back around. And why should he? He was free of Alfred's stare now. What was the point of turning and putting himself in that vulnerable position again? He could leave Alfred standing there and not feel the least bit guilty about it. He could.

And yet...

Curiosity. His curiosity was almost overwhelming, and when his fingers began to twitch, he knew he just couldn't stand there. He had to look. He couldn't help it. He steadied himself, and braced his feet. But when he finally took a great breath and dared himself to look over his shoulder, there was nothing. Just the blurry, passing crowd.

Alfred was gone.

He stood there, and for a strange second, he felt a twinge of disappointment.

...god, what was _that_? Disappointed because Alfred was gone? Yeah, right. Hardly.

Feeling exceedingly agitated and fidgety, Ludwig abandoned his gingerbread house to the window and took up the bag that had been shoved at him, and with heavy feet, he tromped to the door and called back, "I'm leaving!"

"Alright. See you tomorrow."

With that, he pushed through the door, pausing in the street to look around very thoroughly.

Alfred wasn't there.

Pursing his lips and turning on his heel, Ludwig directed his feet towards home, chin tucked down into his collar and clutching the bag of baked goods to his chest and trying his very best to keep his mind blank.

Alfred's sunny smile kept breaking through the gloom. And no matter how hard he tried, it just wouldn't go away.

What did he want? Wanted something, he knew it, just didn't know what and why.

Jerk was trying to make himself feel better, no doubt, since his father clearly laid into him. Felt guilty, maybe, or something like that, and just wanted to get on Ludwig's good side to clear his conscience. That was somehow a more hurtful thought than anything, in a way. Didn't want it to be like that. Made him feel even more pitiful than he already was.

Didn't want Alfred to come around, and wanted him to come around even less if that was what he was really doing.

Lost in thoughts and in a damp mood, he found himself face to face with his front door, and reached out with clumsy fingers to turn the lock.

At least Alfred hadn't returned here to his home. Jerk had sense enough for that, at least.

Scarcely had he pushed through the door and into the light when he was bombarded by a bouncing Antonio.

"You're back early!" he cried, as he flew up from the couch and literally leapt over the back of it to save himself the time of walking around, and when he was close enough, he placed a warm, heavy hand on Ludwig's shoulder, brow low and eyes worried. "You're early! Are you alright? You didn't feel well? Why don't you go lie down for a little bit? You look a bit pale. I've already started dinner!"

Mouth hanging open and having no opportunity to speak for Antonio's pistol-quick questions, Ludwig could only stand there and let Antonio shake him gently.

"Say! Are you alright, huh?"

Finally, Antonio stopped talking, if only to catch his breath, and Ludwig used the moment of hesitation to say, quickly, "I'm fine. It was slow."

Antonio's face relaxed.

"Oh. I'm glad. You should still lie down, though."

"I'm alright."

"You're always alright," Antonio tossed back, somewhat sternly, but his annoying overbearing was diffused when Ludwig pushed the bag into his hands.

"Here, I brought you a present."

It took only a whiff of bread and cake, long missed since he had left the bakery, to make Antonio forget that he had ever been worried at all, and it as with a bright smile and eager hands that Antonio scampered off into the kitchen, calling back excitedly, "Alright! Best present _ever_!"

Ludwig stood there, his foul mood dissipating with Antonio's cheerfulness. It was hard to be dismal with Antonio around.

Guy like that.

"Come here, Ludwig, have some coffee with me. It's cold out."

Sounded great.

He went to the table and pulled out a chair, and Antonio was on him in a second, scooting his own chair close enough over that he could throw his arm over Ludwig's shoulder, shaking him and jostling him and maybe making sure that he was actually still alive. Ludwig could only sit subdued under his arm, and let him do as he would.

Seemed he always let everyone do as they would.

Antonio always smiled at him.

So it shouldn't have occurred to him at all that Antonio's fond smile was like slipping into a warm, comforting bath; not like looking into the sun. Not on par with that intense, breathless look of longing and aching and indescribable hope for _something_ that had lit up Alfred's face. Antonio's smiles made him feel safe. Secure. Cherished. But they didn't make the hairs on his arms and neck stand up.

He had never known Alfred could look like that. Had only seen him dark and angry and dangerous. Hadn't known he could actually smile like that.

Antonio saw his strange look, and arched a brow, pushing a mug of coffee beneath him, and asking, hopefully, "Are you hungry?"

He shook his head. Antonio's quirked brow fell.

And as he sat there under Antonio's arm, stirring his coffee absently and staring off into space, he wondered if Antonio would agree with him about Alfred.

Antonio.

He straightened up, coming out of his daze with a start. Of course. Antonio. Antonio had been here the entire time. Why didn't he ask Antonio about it? Why didn't he ask for advice? It seemed a bit silly, almost, that he hadn't even considered it before. A side effect of his pride, no doubt. What harm would it do, to talk to Antonio? It _hurt_ to say such things aloud, sure it did, to _anyone_ , even to Antonio, but it was starting to hurt too to stay so silent all the time. He needed to tell someone. He needed vindication. Vindication. Antonio would tell him what he needed to hear. Antonio would assure him that he was right, and Alfred was wrong.

"Say," he finally managed, his voice low and scratchy as his throat threatened to lock up as it often did when he was feeling that terrible anxiety, and Antonio lifted his head.

"Hm?"

For a second, he froze under Antonio's eyes.

...oh, how could he tell Antonio all of this? To admit his weakness and paint with potent detail his moments in disgrace? To admit to Antonio the things that had happened in the dirty streets of the city? Antonio would think less of him.

"What is it?" Antonio asked, when he said nothing else, and for a moment, Ludwig was mortified that he had even opened his mouth. The arm around his shoulders gave him a shake to spur him on.

Alfred stood there watching, in the street. Never said a word. Just staring.

Could Antonio understand this better than he could? Antonio could be objective. Distant and observant. Not too close to the situation.

He had to know.

Finally, his throat opened up, and he said, weakly, "I wanted to tell you something."

"O- _oh_!"

It was immediate, the brightening of Antonio's eyes, and he snapped his head over so quickly and so eagerly that Ludwig would not have been terribly surprised if he had given himself whiplash, nearly knocking over his coffee as he twisted in his seat, and his look clearly said, 'You're _really_ gonna talk to me? Really?'

He felt another squirm of guilt. Antonio deserved more than he gave him. He had done nothing to earn Antonio. All Antonio did for him, and he couldn't even just talk to him. He was a terrible friend.

Antonio deserved more, so, with one great tensing of his shoulders and a deep breath, Ludwig leaned forward, elbows on the table and Antonio's stubborn arm still over his shoulders, and told Antonio everything. Everything. Five years of history pouring out like rain. He told Antonio things he swore to himself he would never tell anyone.

Every word, every action, every look, every spitting declaration of hatred, every blow and every kick, and worst of all his own silence and placidity, afraid to lift his hand against them for fear of a worse retaliation, for fear of winding up in a wooden box somewhere, for fear of getting arrested and getting sent back home, a town that he missed but could not bear to be in ever again.

Five years of Alfred.

And now suddenly these months of change. He told Antonio everything. Everything he knew about Alfred. Everything he had said, done. Every move he had made. Every look. He told Antonio about that night. How everything had changed from there. How everything was so different now. How confused he was.

He told Antonio _everything_.

The only detail he omitted, for it all, was the reason _why_ he had gone out that night. He couldn't tell Antonio that. It would have broken his heart.

It must have been hours; by the time he realized he had no more words to speak, his coffee was ice-cold and the sky outside was black. Antonio had not moved the entire time. He just sat there, leaning into Ludwig's side, hardly appearing to breathe and just listening. He didn't speak.

When he had said everything there was to say, Ludwig slumped in exhaustion, and after a hesitation he asked, mostly to himself, "So, he doesn't really mean it, right?"

Lifting his eyes when Antonio sighed, he could see him staring down into his mug thoughtfully, and Ludwig felt somehow expectant. Antonio would agree with him.

"Well..."

The vindication that he sought was suddenly denied when Antonio finally said, tentatively, "I don't know, Ludwig. Maybe...maybe you're being a little too hard on him. Don't you think?"

A heavy silence. Ludwig felt his ire rise.

"What?" was all he came out with, and Antonio picked up on the anger in his voice, surely, but still kept his arm above him. Grip might have been tighter though, as if Antonio were bracing himself. Their eyes suddenly met.

"You asked me," Antonio said, sternly. "I answered."

Ludwig fell still.

Yeah, he had asked. He had asked because he had been sure Antonio would back him up. Not say that.

Too _hard_ on him? _He_ was being too hard? On Alfred? Like hell.

Antonio gave him another good shake, and his voice was very firm and also very calm, trying to soothe Ludwig doubtless, when he added, "Listen, I'm just saying I think maybe you're being a little stubborn. He's an asshole, yeah. However! From what you told me, it really sounds like he just wants to put everything in the past. That's what I think, anyway. I don't think it would really hurt anyone if you just talked to him. What harm ever came from talking? Just ask him what he wants. That's all. You don't have to be friends with him, you know? Just talk to him, and maybe he'll leave you alone after."

Just talk?

How could he talk to Alfred? What was there to even say? Didn't know what to say, didn't even know how to start. Still uncertain as he was about what Alfred really wanted.

This was so uncomfortable. This wasn't right. Antonio was making everything all the more complicated.

"I don't trust him," Ludwig finally said, sinking down into his chair, hurt that he had poured his heart out only to be thrust into the spotlight all the worse. To have Antonio expect more of him than he had to give. "I just want him to go _away_."

Antonio was quiet for a while, and then his arm lifted from Ludwig's shoulder, and suddenly Antonio had grabbed Ludwig's hand instead, clenching it tightly and giving it a good shake for emphasis.

" _Oh_ , aren't you sick of feeling so _bad_ all the time? Sometimes, Ludwig, I wonder if you even remember how to smile. I just want you to be happy. Even before, when we first met, you used to smile, but...I don't think I've ever really seen you _happy_. You're so quiet now. You don't talk anymore. I miss you. I miss the way you used to be. Sometimes, I'm not even sure if you're really still here."

Was he? Felt so numb all the time. Far away and dazed, distant. He didn't mean to be. He just couldn't ever seem to get his mind working, as if his brain just wouldn't fire these days. He didn't mean to be that way.

Caught in Antonio's eyes, Ludwig just said, "I'm sorry."

Didn't know what to do. What to say.

Lost.

Antonio jostled his hand again, shook his head, and said, in a much deeper, sterner voice, "You don't need to be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, I just— Look. Sometimes you just have trust people. Not everyone's what you think they are. Look at you! You're nothing like _that_ , even though they say it. You know how that feels. Maybe you should just give him a chance. Just talk to him. Just once. One time, and then it's all over. Get it over with."

He looked up, feeling so hopelessly lost and dazed and alone, and Antonio tried to lighten the air by reaching up and patting his cold cheek gently.

"But hey! If he fucks up, I'll go and show him how I got Luna Lovi to leave you alone, eh? He won't know what hit him."

Ludwig tried to smile. He couldn't.

Antonio gave him a gentle slap on the back nonetheless and pulled himself out his chair, standing and taking Ludwig's arm, muttering, "Come on, it's late. Why don't you go to bed?"

He did, if only because he just didn't know what else to _do_. Sleep would be best, before his mind imploded in on itself. Nothing was turning out like he had planned. Now he was more confused than before, and as Antonio led him up the stairs and walked him to the door of his bedroom like a child, he found himself walking along without realizing it.

He went to push the door.

"Ludwig."

He paused, and waited.

"You're my best friend. You could have talked to me sooner. You didn't have to let it go so far."

That voice. Sounded, for just a moment, as if Antonio really knew why Ludwig had gone out there that day.

Again, all Ludwig could say, "I'm sorry."

"We'll talk more about it in the morning, if you want."

He didn't, but he nodded his head anyway and slipped inside his room without another word. He laid down, and stared up at the ceiling until he fell asleep, Antonio's suggestions churning in his mind even as he slept.

He dreamt of his father, and Alfred's.

Soldiers across opposite lines. Those two men could never have reconciled. So how could he and Alfred? It seemed impossible. Maybe Antonio's optimism had turned into delusion. Enemies, destined from birth. How could that path ever change? They were soldiers too, only fighting a much different war. A war thrown down onto them by their fathers. That didn't seem fair.

The night passed restlessly for him, tossing and turning and waking up in short intervals. Hours of anxiety and apprehension. Uncertainty. And when the morning came, he felt more exhausted than he had when he had laid down.

Like he had been awake for weeks.

It was with feet full of lead and a burning headache that he forced himself to crawl out of bed, quite literally, and he could barely seem to drag himself over to his closet just to get dressed. He didn't want to go back to the shop. He didn't want to see Alfred today. Not after what Antonio had said. Talking suddenly seemed like the most daunting task on Earth.

In a daze and feeling rather numb, he pulled on wrinkled clothes and staggered to the door, far too tired to even attempt to iron them, and giving no effort to comb his hair. Just dress and go. His body just didn't feel like doing much else. Creeping down the stairs, taking a care not to awaken the snoring Antonio that was crashed quite contentedly on his couch, a blanket wrapped around him in a protective cocoon, he made for the door. Barely remembered his coat.

He felt dizzy.

Snow was falling outside.

His gait was awkward and unsteady as he ambled through the cold streets, hands tucked in his pockets and keeping his eyes on the ground. This was the worst headache he'd had in a while. Alfred's fault, one way or another.

Things had been easier before, when Alfred had been so easy to hate. So simple. Not anymore.

The shop was upon him quicker than he had expected, and when he pushed through the door, the owner's loud voice was abrasive and painful on his ears.

"Morning!" came the greeting as soon as he entered, and he responded with a weak nod of his head.

He must have looked awful.

"You feelin' alright, Lutz? You don't look so good."

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, and tried to wave it off, ignoring the awful throbbing behind his forehead.

"I'm alright. Couldn't sleep. I think I'm getting insomnia."

The owner pursed his lips and scratched at his apron, saying, "Oh? I'll have to ask the wife about that. She might know something that'll help you sleep. You worry too much about everything, that's what I think. I'll tell her to find something to relax you with, too." He ambled off towards the back, crying loudly, "Hey! Greta! Lemme ask you—"

Ludwig shook his head, taking his coat off and folding it clumsily, placing it beneath the counter as he took his dutiful spot at the register. The sunlight streamed in dusty rays through the window, setting the ornaments on the tiny Christmas tree alight, and he bowed his head, tucking his chin into his collar, and could have quite easily fallen asleep right then and there.

But every time a shadow lingered here and there, he started upright, alarmed. False alarm. Just a customer. He put on a polite face and held his chin high, offering a quick greeting and little conversation.

The time passed, blearily. Antonio's words were heavy on his mind.

The customers wished him a Merry Christmas as they left, and Ludwig nodded his head and sent them a smile, however fake. See? He could smile. Ridiculous. Of course he remembered how to smile. As if he could forget! It was like riding a bike, wasn't it? Not something that could be forgotten. Ha. Silly Antonio. He remembered how to smile.

...didn't he?

These fake little twitches of his lips that he tossed out mindlessly. Those weren't really smiles. But he could give a real one, if he tried. If he really tried, he could. If he tried.

Yeah.

Why bother? People smiled when they had reason to. When they had things to look forward to. When they were happy. He couldn't remember the last time he had been happy. Maybe he had been something close to happy when he had walked Blackie in the park. That was gone.

He didn't bother to smile.

Hours passed, most of it spent staring blankly ahead at the wall and holding a conversation with himself in his head. Antonio and Alfred intruded in on him quite frequently, attention-seekers that they were.

Friends. Enemies. Friends. Which was Alfred? He wasn't so sure anymore. He and Alfred couldn't be friends. Could they? The word was strange on his mind.

Friends.

A sudden image in his mind of him and Alfred walking down the streets together, ramming into each other's shoulders every so often as friends did, sniping at each other amicably and telling each other everything and spending the night drinking together and having _fun_ , and there was no animosity between them, no more hatred and no more despair, no more being caught helplessly in the swirling tide, because they could toss each other a raft, leaning on each other and each pulling through their own darkness, feeding off of each other for strength and just being together and not feeling so _lost_.

An impossibility.

He and Alfred would never act like that. Even if they could overcome the last hurdles and become 'friends', then so what? Alfred wouldn't tell him everything. He wouldn't trust himself to drink with Alfred. Alfred wouldn't walk down the street with him for appearance's sake. He wouldn't let himself lean on Alfred for strength for his pride. They couldn't be real friends. He would never be able to call Alfred on the phone in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. It would never be a normal friendship.

And yet...

Maybe they could just be acquaintances. Maybe they could just say 'Hi' to each other when they bumped on the street. And that would be enough. Enough to end this war. It would be enough for him, just to know that he didn't have to worry about Alfred anymore. To go back to a normal routine. Even if Alfred only sought to soothe his conscience, it didn't matter. Maybe interacting with him, even in such a small way as a greeting, would serve as a remedy to both of them.

He would be able to sleep again.

Just that. Just talk. That would be enough, maybe. He could do it, because he owed Antonio that, and also because Antonio wasn't the only one that missed him. He missed himself; hated feeling this way as much as Antonio hated seeing it.

Ludwig stood himself up straight, fought away the sleepiness, and braced himself for the day. Today would be the day. Today, he would bury five years. Maybe it would help him. Maybe it wouldn't. But he could say he had tried.

Time passed, as he rested his weight against the counter upon jittery hands.

The streets became crowded as the morning faded. One of the prime times for Alfred to appear. So nervous. What would he do when Alfred came? Time passed. Noon was on high. Alfred hadn't come yet.

But the day was young yet.

He took up a cloth, and began wiping things down in an effort to control his nerves and to give the appearance of actually working. His mind raced with awkward scenarios. Maybe he could wave at Alfred, and that would be enough, and Alfred would be so excited that he would just leave, and everything would be easier after that.

The high noon sun slowly began to lower, pale and white behind the endless winter clouds, and with every inch that it lowered in the sky, his expectation began to wane. Every few seconds or so he caught himself looking up at the window, breath caught in the darkness of a shadow, but in the end, there was nothing.

Alfred hadn't showed yet. He convinced himself that he ache in his stomach was certainly _not_ disappointment.

Absently, he held the cloth within his hand, rubbing the counter down in the same spot he had been half an hour ago, eyes unfocused and bleary upon the opposite wall. Every time someone paused, he would look over automatically, but it wasn't ever Alfred.

He felt a twisting of restlessness in his stomach. So long it had taken him to gather up the courage to even attempt this, and now suddenly the jerk wasn't even going to show up? He wasn't sure that he would possess the same will tomorrow. It was now or never. Today. It had to be today.

But even if Alfred did come, what would he say? Thinking about it made him want to vomit. What could he possibly _say_? He was so awkward. What would he say?

'Let's just not fight anymore.'

No.

'You're Alfred. I'm Ludwig. Let's call a truce.'

No.

'You're an egotistical jackass and I still kind of hate you and your ugly jacket, but I'm sick of feeling so shitty all the time, so let's be friends.'

...nope.

His hands were trembling, hidden within the cloth. This anxiety was killing him. Such a strange notion, to think that maybe he and Alfred could be something other than destined enemies, but not necessarily unpleasant. He was _tired_. If relenting a bit to Alfred was the cure for that, then, well...

"Whoa!" came a sudden voice next to him, and he jumped in alarm, but when he wrenched his head to the side, it was just the store-owner, standing there hand on hip, smiling at him. "I think that's the cleanest that counter's been in about ten years."

For a stunned moment, Ludwig stood there frozen, and then he flushed a deep red and set the cloth aside, trying to regain himself as the owner's wife tittered from within the kitchen doorway, sending him a look of motherly fondness.

Looking about this way and that, he stood there in silence until he was alone again, and let himself breathe.

The time passed. The sun was still bright. White. The evening was upon them. Nearly five. His anxiety peaked. Five had been the hour that Alfred had shown up only the day before. Time slowed into a horrible, dull lurch. The urge to forget the whole thing and flee was creeping up upon him. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he would freeze up, like he always did. Alfred would just leave, and everything would be the same.

But, oh, thinking of that breathtaking _smile_ that Alfred had sent him! Ludwig didn't trust Alfred, no, but it was harder to think the worst of him after seeing that smile.

Time dragged in a haze. The white sun turned golden. The clouds turned orange and pink.

And then it happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see someone stop before the window, casting a shadow into the store. The dull sheen of a jacket.

Feeling his heart leap up into his throat and a burst of dizzying adrenaline, for a dazed moment, Ludwig turned his head, and he _knew_ that it was Alfred, coming now like he had been coming so frequently, and he was going to raise up his hand and give that bold wave, but this time Ludwig would force himself to smile in return, and if everything went well, maybe Alfred would be emboldened and take a step forward and actually come inside, and maybe they would even shake hands—

Just talk. That was all. Just be normal people.

He turned his head. Turn. Observe. Acknowledge. Smile. _Smile_. He could smile. He _could_. He could...

He turned his head.

And then jumped back at a great, ear-splitting shatter.

He had turned his head, but before his eyes had even fallen to the street something (maybe a rock; he was too dizzy with adrenaline to tell) had been hurled through the shop window, and even though his mind did not immediately comprehend what had happened, his body reacted mechanically, and he leapt back and shielded his face with folded arms in an automatic mechanism of defense.

The crash echoed in his ears. Clinking of glass shards hitting the tile.

The sounds of the street outside were far too loud, the barrier keeping them out now compromised. Then there was a thick, frightening silence, and Ludwig lowered his arms slowly, and turned wide eyes to the shattered window, as the cold winter air blew in with fervor.

The adrenaline slowed into a creeping dread. Time stopped. He couldn't breathe. Someone was standing there in front of the window, alright. It wasn't Alfred. But it was close enough in the family tree.

Alfred's father.

Ludwig could feel his blood freeze in his veins as the old man stood there before the window, shoulders and arms braced and his whole body tense, standing there stark still in the street and staring in through the broken window, and oh _god_. The _look_ on his face. The hairs on the back of Ludwig's neck stood upright. But not in the way the son had sent them up.

Terror.

Hadn't ever seen anything like that. Had never seen such a look like _that_ , a horrible expression of rage and undiluted, unadulterated, uncontrollable _hate_ , not since—

—s _top talkin' in that ugly language, won't ya? No one wants to hear that shit, take it back to hell with you, you dirty old Fritz and tell Adolf that I'm the one that sent ya there, like I sent the rest of 'em all over_ —

—not since _that day_ , not since old Dieter had been stomped into the ground on that sunny, warm day, surrounded on all sides by people and yet so alone. It was the same look. The same look. Only this time it was directed at _him_.

Stiff and suddenly unable to move, Ludwig could only stare back through the glassless window, eyes wide in horror, and wonder what he had done. What had he done wrong?

Oh Christ, that look! He couldn't move.

Footsteps behind. The owner and his wife came skidding into the room behind him, and he could hear her gasp as she saw the shattered glass upon the floor, but Ludwig couldn't turn his head to look back at them. He was caught in the old man's eyes.

A voice drifted in through the voice, low and raspy and thin. Dangerous. Chilly.

"Went out to look for my boy. He never comes home anymore. And then someone said he's been coming out around here, just walkin' all over the place. But I'm not dumb. I know why he comes out here. You." The old man's fists clenched at his sides. "I'm only goin' to tell ya once, so listen real good."

Ludwig couldn't breathe.

"I don't know what you've done to him, but it's not gonna work."

Too horrified to even tremble. Not a muscle moved.

"You're not gonna get him."

A horrible, unyielding gaze. Nearly crazed.

"You stay away from _my_ boy. Stay away."

With that, Alfred's father turned on his heel and walked off, leaving only his words and shards of glass behind as a reminder of his presence.

Nothing stirred. No sound.

Ludwig could only stand there, and wonder to himself if maybe he had unwittingly knocked something loose in Alfred's old man's head just by _knowing_ his son. Maybe the old man was really losing it, and maybe he would be more dangerous than ever before, and maybe those bars on his windows would prove more needed than he had ever intended—

A stunning realization.

_Alfred_? Since _when_?

Jones. Goddamn Jones and his goddamn father.

He was horrified at himself, out of nowhere. Stupid. It had always been Jones, always. Oh, what had he been thinking? What had he been thinking? Friends! He had thought the word!

So stupid. There had never been anyone as stupid as Ludwig. No matter what, he couldn't win, couldn't. Jones pummeled him and Ludwig fell. Jones tried to extend his hand and Ludwig fell. No way out. Couldn't win, either way. He had been so stupid, _so_ stupid, to ever think that something _good_ could come from someone like Jones, not someone like _him_ —

A movement before him, and the owner stood before the window, lips pursed and examining the damage with an eagle eye, shaking his head to himself.

Ludwig was able to move again. The horror dissolved into shame.

"I'm _sorry_ ," he moaned, as he fell down onto one knee and began carefully gathering up the shards of shattered glass within his hands, "I'm really—I'll get it fixed. I'm _so_ sorry."

He felt like bursting into tears.

Oh no. Oh no, surely they wouldn't toss him out because of this, not this. He hadn't known this was going to happen, he hadn't meant for it, he hadn't wanted it. Couldn't get run out. He had no more money saved. Was just scraping by.

This couldn't be happening.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll fix it, I swear I will, please don't—"

"Hush," came the gentle reprimand from the wife, as the owner retreated to the back, to fetch a broom no doubt, "You think this is the first time we've had our windows broken? Ha. Take the world as it is, Ludwig, not as it ought to be."

A hand on his shoulder.

And then she was gone, following her husband, leaving Ludwig crouched there in a moment of sobering immobility.

Ha. How strange.

_Take the world as it is, not as it ought to be._

His father had uttered almost those very words, as he had knelt there on the floor, just like this, placing his large hands upon Ludwig's shoulders as he sought to guide his remaining son one last time before he marched off to war, taking his shoulder bag and rifle and walking through that door. The world had turned out to be different than Ludwig had thought it would be. His father had never prepared him for _this_.

Not life like this.

Fighting back the urge to fall forward on the floor and dissolve, he clenched his jaw and tried to clean up the mess as best he could, feeling shamed and hopeless and absolutely worthless. No good came from him. Misfortune was all he had to offer anyone. Good people took him in and bad things happened. He wished, for the first time in weeks, that he really had died that night. It would have been better.

And suddenly, as the pieces of glass in his palms clicked and clattered against each other and he was concentrating on not slicing his hands apart for his misery, a shadow fell above him.

The gold sun gleaming in through the door was blocked out. But only for a second, and then the shadow was gone, and before Ludwig really realized it, there was someone kneeling before him. He didn't lift his eyes, because he didn't really want to know who it was. A hand right in front of his own, as they reached for the same shard of glass.

A burn in his chest.

The fingers brushed against his own. And they stayed there, not bothering to pull away.

Ludwig stared down, and felt his agitation growing. Because he knew that hand. He knew the sleeve of that jacket. He knew that smell of machinery and leather and cologne. He knew those boots.

Why? Oh, _why_? Why was he here? He couldn't stand it. He couldn't bear to look at Jones right now, not after he had put others in danger just by being here, just because of Jones. Jones had put him into this position. Jones had made him a _danger_ to be around.

Antonio had been wrong.

Yanking himself to his feet so quickly that his healing rib stung like it was going to break all over again, Ludwig hurled the shattered glass at Jones' feet, too angry for once to control himself, and when Jones staggered upright, looking alarmed and maybe hurt, Ludwig stomped his foot and cried, "Get out! Get out! Get _out_ of here!"

For a second, Jones just stood there, arms limp at his sides, and instead of retreating like he by all rights should have, he lowered his eyes, and when his gaze fell on Ludwig's hands, he murmured, almost dazedly, "You're bleeding."

Silence.

Dumbly, Ludwig looked down, and could see that, indeed, he had sliced his palms on the shards when he had hurled them furiously at Jones. Drops of blood on the tile. Warmth running down his fingers. Steady dripping.

Jones was still standing there. Oh, _god_ , why couldn't he just leave him alone? Why? What did he _want_?

"Go away," Ludwig finally managed, weakly, and Jones suddenly caught his gaze, and it was obvious that he was giving every effort to smile, trying to ignore the harsh tone of voice.

Jones didn't budge.

Couldn't breathe suddenly. This stress and endless frustration was too much. He couldn't comprehend what Jones _wanted_ from him. Why couldn't he understand that they could never be friends? Didn't Jones live in the real world? They were not meant to associate.

Friends.

And he remembered, as Jones stared away at him, with a horrible pang of something that almost felt like _hurt_ , that he had slipped out of the real world too. He had been placid around Jones. He had lowered his guard. He had allowed Jones room to come near. He had allowed Jones to speak to him. He had allowed Jones to seek him out. He had allowed Jones to stand there and stare at him without interruption. He had stared back. He had done nothing to deter him. He had almost looked _forward_ to seeing Jones waiting there outside. He had liked being caught under that great beam. He had felt his lips twitch when Jones waved at him, so close to slipping into a smile.

He had actually entertained the notion that he and Jones could be _friends_. He had almost smiled that day. Smiled. How could he? That foolish thought that there was something there that could bring them together, at the same time choosing to childishly dismiss the fact that there were a hundred other things pulling them firmly apart. He and Jones could never be friends. The shattered glass upon the tile was a painful reminder. Standing here on destruction, staring at each other, yet again on opposite sides.

And they had nothing for it.

...oh. It hurt. Reality _hurt_. He had slipped out of the real world, and coming back into it so hard was devastating.

Friends.

Jones stood still, looking crestfallen and yet somehow still hopeful, as though maybe there was still a way he could _fix_ this whole mess, and when he took a step forward, the crunch of glass beneath his boots filled Ludwig's ears and drew him out of the dull mist.

Jones couldn't fix this. Jones couldn't fix anything. Jones couldn't fix people. Jones couldn't change the world. Even if he wanted to. What could one man ever change?

Ludwig, hating the feeling of vulnerability, masked the hurt with fury.

"Get out!" Clenching his bloody fists and taking a combative step forward, hoping to scare Jones out with only his voice and stance, he kicked the glass towards the stupid brat with malice. "Out! Get out! Go away! Leave me alone!"

Jones didn't budge. Didn't go. Would never be scared of Ludwig, never, because Ludwig was pitiful.

Jones reached out, an awful look of pleading upon his face as he held his hands beseechingly up in the air, moaning, "Please, let me just say it, _please_ listen, I wanted to tell you—"

"I don't _care_!" Ludwig interrupted, and he could hear that his voice had became a high-pitched shriek, unknown to him, and he had _never_ been so angry, so offended and so hurt and _so_ miserable, and it took every ounce of restraint not to jump on Jones and just hit him until he couldn't hit him anymore.

This was all Jones' fault.

Had woken up at last from apathy, and only to anger. Not fair.

"Please!"

"Get out!"

Jones took a step forward, brow suddenly scrunched up as though he were seconds away from bursting into tears, and when his fingers reached out and brushed the sleeve of his shirt, Ludwig snapped.

He was _hurt_. So he hurt back.

Snatching himself back from the grasp as though burned, Ludwig pulled back his hand and struck out, slapping Jones across the face as hard as he could, putting everything his exhausted body had into it.

The sound in the shop seemed too loud.

Didn't want to hurt him. Just wanted him to leave, because seeing him was suddenly making Ludwig want to cry.

Jones staggered back, stumbling over his own feet and catching himself at the last second against the frame of the door, and when he looked up, eyes wide and hair tousled and cheek red and glasses close to falling off, the look he sent Ludwig was almost as pitiful as Ludwig felt. Confusion. Hurt. Incomprehension and betrayal and helplessness and devastation. Crushed. As if he just didn't _understand_.

That hurt, too.

Oh, why did it have to happen this way? Both of them would be miserable forever. He didn't _want_ to see Jones like this, but there was no other outcome. Jones had to get it through his thick head.

"Get out of here. Don't come back."

Jones shook his head, eyes unfocused ahead, muttering dazedly, "Why do ya keep doing this? I don't get it, I don't."

This was killing him. He couldn't stand it anymore.

"Get out! Oh, g _od_ , get out! _Go_!"

"I only want—"

" _I don't care_! Go! Go away! Get out of here! Get out! _GET OUT_! _OUT_!"

He had never screamed at anyone in his life, not ever, his voice so loud and high that half of the notes were lost to the air, and his throat burned for the effort. About to snap his vocal chords altogether.

Jones was just _stood_ there, and stared. It would have been so much better if Jones had gotten angry and retaliated or shouted back or stomped off in fury, but he didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there.

Couldn't be. Would never be. No matter how hard Jones tried.

"Please leave," Ludwig moaned, miserably, arms falling loose at his sides as fury turned to utter despair, praying that Jones would go before he began to cry. He'd die of shame if he cried in front of Jones. A breath away from bawling. "Please!"

A movement.

At last, Jones took a great breath, looked around the room, and let his eyes settle on Ludwig. But there was no smile there this time. It had to happen, and they both knew it. Jones nodded his head.

"Alright."

Seconds of lingering, maybe waiting for Ludwig to change his mind. Ludwig didn't, and stood still. Finally, Jones retreated, turning and disappearing as quickly and quietly as he had come.

Silence.

And when he was gone, no relief came from it. Ludwig sank down onto his knees, on the verge of losing it. He only felt worse. Leaning forward and catching his weight on his palms, oblivious to the burn as the shards dug into them, he stared at the floor, slumping farther and farther down until, before he knew it, his forehead was nearly touching the tile.

It _had_ to happen.

He could keep it together, if he tried. No one ever had to know that he had been planning on talking. No one would know, if he just kept it together. Jones didn't have to be his downfall. Jones didn't have to be the end of him. Jones would never know that he had almost gotten to Ludwig.

But, _oh_ —

Never had breaking down seemed like such a good idea.

A footstep behind him brought him back into the atmosphere, and with a rush of strength he was surprised he even had left, he pushed himself up off the floor, falling back onto his knees and pretending as though he had merely been gathering up the glass all along. Even though he knew that they had seen (or at the very least heard) the altercation, but that was no reason to forgo his pride and let Jones turn him into a puddle of mangled nerves.

The wife came around, carefully, and placed a hand upon his back.

"You're bleeding all over, Ludwig, come on. Let me clean your hands up."

"It's nothing. Just a few scratches."

"Don't give me that!"

"Just let me finish cleaning—"

"I'll get all this up," the owner interjected, firmly, and knowing that there were no more excuses, Ludwig pulled himself up to his feet, and tried to keep his chin high as she tugged him towards the kitchen, her husband sweeping up the shards with pursed lips.

She fussed and tutted here and there, but he didn't really hear her, staring off at the wall, and keeping a blank face of impassiveness. They wouldn't see how this had affected him.

...it _had_ to happen, but Christ, it didn't make it sting any less. The pain in his hands was no match.

A pat on his arm.

"You hear me?"

Starting as though from sleep, Ludwig turned bleary eyes toward her and breathed, dazedly, "Huh?"

"I said, I think they'll be alright. They're not that deep. You should be alright without stitches. Just some cuts."

"Oh," was all he managed.

She sent him a strange, stern look.

"You should go home and rest up. Go on! Go get some sleep. You look really awful."

"Thanks," he murmured, far too out in space to realize what was going on, and the next thing he knew she was leading him to the door.

He heard scraping of glass upon tile.

"Hey, Rudolf, I'll be back soon, I'm going to walk him home."

The fog in his mind was thick. Dumb Jones.

"Alright. Tell that kid he lives with to keep a good eye on him. With that damn crazy Ami runnin' around. Jesus pleasus it's gonna be just like before."

"Don't say that, you old fool. Nothing will happen to him. We know better than to just stand still now."

"Sure! Like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that."

"Stop it."

Their voices passed like mists.

How strange, that only hours before his outlook had been so hopeful. Things could turn on a dime.

A tug on his arm, and suddenly he was moving, aware in some sense of his surroundings but not completely able to free himself from shock and daze. Cold air. Sounds of the street.

He had felt a ray of warmth breaking through the freezing night. Stupid. He should have known better by now. He should have known better than to get his hopes up. Nothing ever turned out like it was supposed to. Hadn't he learned this lesson long ago? What a foolish thing hope was. Pointless.

A dull knocking.

Standing there in a daze, brow furrowed and possibly muttering incoherently to himself, he felt another hand upon him, and tried to appear alert, even if he wasn't. He knew the feel of Antonio's hand. He was being passed off between them.

"Well, listen..."

And now she was telling Antonio to be alert and aware. Antonio, once again being brought down by worry.

Ludwig tried to drag himself from his stupor when someone shook his shoulder.

"Hey! Stay home tomorrow, alright? Rest up for a few days. Don't worry about anything. We'll take care of whatever you need, alright? Take some time."

Even through the haze, he knew charity when he heard it. He had no want of charity.

"Tomorrow," he heard himself say. "I'll be in tomorrow. Don't worry about me."

His pride would kill him.

Taking in his surroundings blearily, he could feel them staring at him, and Antonio looked absolutely devastated, as though this entire thing had happened to him. Maybe guilt, for spurring Ludwig on with hopeful words.

It wasn't Antonio's fault.

"I'll be in tomorrow," he repeated, monotonously, and with a polite nod of his head, he turned on his heel and glided without a sound up the staircase, leaving them behind to mutter amongst themselves and no doubt send concerned looks in his wake.

He would rather just go to sleep.

Glass shattering.

_Stay away from my boy._

My boy. But he hadn't gone _near_ that boy. How unfair. The terrible positions that Jones put him into. Jones tried his best, the poor, dumb oaf, to pull him out of one rut and only wound up tossing him unceremoniously into another.

He found his bed when he walked straight into it, and it was with effort that he kicked off his boots with either heel and then fell down onto the mattress, not bothering to undress nor pull back the blanket. Such little things. Why bother with them?

He wanted to sleep.

Mercifully, shot nerves and shut-down neurons and a heavy heart made sleep come easily.

One thing to be grateful for.

* * *

Morning came before he really even realized that the night had ended.

Time blurred into an endless stream.

He suspected that the only reason he woke up at all was because someone was running their fingers through his messy hair.

Inhaling to steady the sudden race of his heart as his body crashed out of unconsciousness, he turned his head, but didn't dare to open his eyes, because what he wanted would not be there. Awaking like this, to someone stroking his hair, was only another way for fate to torment him.

Did everything have to remind him of things long gone?

His brother had done this every morning. Every morning, even when there was really no good reason to get up, hovering above Ludwig and trailing cool fingers through his hair until he woke up, and always that same smile when he did.

Love.

"Ludwig?"

But it wasn't his brother.

"Hey."

Just Antonio, sitting on the edge of the bed and fretting, like he always did.

"You awake?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, his voice thick and muffled by the pillow he was pressed into, and with a weary sigh, he pushed himself up on his elbows and onto his knees as the daze of the day before shook off.

Antonio tried to smile.

"Do you want something to eat? I'm about to set out."

"No thanks."

Antonio's look of expectancy seemed tired.

"Alright. I wish I could stay here with you. Won't you just stay home today?"

He shook his head, and Antonio heaved a sigh. Antonio looked disheartened. Down.

"Okay, okay. I gotta go. Be careful, alright? Don't go anywhere you don't need to. I'll be back as soon as I get off, I shouldn't be too late."

"I'll be fine," he said, voice more steady and confident than he really felt, and he shrugged a shoulder, airily. "Don't worry about me."

An impossibility, because Antonio always worried, but he stood up and made for the door anyway, tossing back a quick, "I'll see you later," before he was gone.

Ludwig could only turn his gaze up to the clock, already feeling the circles heavy beneath his eyes, and consign himself to the fact that another day had, indeed, begun.

Same old thing.

Rolling out of bed and giving only the minimal effort to look alive, he trudged to the door, and wondered to himself why any of this was really even worth it. What was he really gaining from any of this? If he didn't have any debts to pay—and damn, now he had to get that window replaced too—then what would be the reason for any of this?

He had no answer.

It had been bad enough, having his own mind as an enemy. Now there was someone else after him. Great.

Wandering down the stairs and into the street felt exactly the same as it always did, as it should, because nothing ever really changed. Same old, same old. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

There was one thing, however, that managed to catch his attention as he slumped through the dirty, slushy snow upon the sidewalk. Something caught Ludwig's eye as he approached the shop.

A gleam.

And that was strange.

He looked up, and for a moment, found himself slowing his pace. The window of the shop. The hastily pinned-up tarp of plastic that he expected was not there. No fluttering, opaque material in the winter wind. No pieces of cut cardboard, no makeshift barriers of boxes or tape to protect from the wind. Instead, gleaming in the morning sun, was a pane. New glass. As if nothing had ever happened.

A sick lurch of adrenaline spurring him on, Ludwig marched forward and pushed through the door, leaping in with intent, and before anyone could even open their mouths and tell him, 'hello', he had jumped into the middle of the store and proclaimed, somewhat loudly and certainly frantically, "N-no! I didn't want you to go out and buy it! It was my fault, I should have been the one to get it fixed—"

They stood still, and he trailed off, caught under strange looks.

A flush of red on his cheeks made him clamp his jaw and duck his head, and he managed to sum up with a lame, "I should have bought it. Not you."

"We didn't buy it," came the strangely tentative response from the wife.

Ludwig looked up, startled.

They were unusually silent, and very nearly shuffling their feet.

Finally, the owner waved his hand in the air and said, lowly, "No, it was that kid. He came by yesterday again, after you'd left. Paid for the whole thing. Even stayed when the guys were installin' it and kept fussin' at 'em to make sure they were doing it right."

...what?

The burst of adrenaline dragged him firmly out of his shock, and suddenly the terror of the day before was replaced by an indescribable confusion. Had he not made himself perfectly clear? Hadn't he told Jones not to come back here? What part of that had he not understood? Just didn't get it, any of it. What did Jones want?

He just stood there, staring straight ahead and clenching his jaw, and then the owner stuck something neatly in front of his face, startling him. When his eyes adjusted, he saw a small white card, and took it automatically.

"He left this for you."

Looking down at the stiff stationary in his hand, Ludwig furrowed his brow and flipped it over with a sense of dread.

What now?

Sloppy, scrawled words. Bold letters. Excessive exclamation points. Enthusiasm in written form.

' _MERRY CHRISTMAS! My fault. My gift to you._ '

Oh. Oh, _really_?

His head hurt all of a sudden. Dumb Jones. What a childish, stupid gesture. And yet...

When he looked back up, feeling somewhat dazed and certainly like he had consumed quite a bit of alcohol, he was caught under a stern, apprehensive gaze.

"Hey, Lutz," came the tentative question, "You—you do know who he _is_ , right? Don't you?"

The daze faded into a squirm of something that almost felt like guilt. And maybe a little annoyance.

"Yeah," he finally grumbled, as he straightened up and tucked the note casually into his pants. "I know."

The owner's eyes lingered upon his pocket, and he twitched as though he wanted to say something, maybe to ask why in god's name Ludwig was even keeping the damn thing, but in the end he fell still, and shook his head.

"Be careful. I mean. That's, ah, some friend to have. Be _careful_."

Friend.

It was true, sure, but the statement sent a squirm of agitation through his stomach nonetheless. A strange feeling of discomfort.

If anyone was going to let Jones know what a bastard he was, it was damn well going to be him. He didn't need anyone watching his back for him and telling him who was dangerous and who was not. He knew all about Jones. He stifled a sudden urge to blurt out, 'I know him better than you do!' because it would have been needlessly rude and certainly foolish. Why would he say such a thing anyway? He and Jones were not friends. He knew that.

"You know," Ludwig suddenly said, as he turned his eyes to the new pane of glass shining in the window, "I really don't feel so well. Would you really mind if I went back home?"

"Course not!" came the quick response. "Go! Go. Go lie down and get some sleep for once. You still havin' that insomnia?"

As he made for the door, hands tucked into his pockets and feeling oddly jittery, he shook his head.

"I think I'm getting over it. I slept pretty well last night."

"Good. Now go on."

He did.

And as he went, that foolish side of him that should have known better couldn't help but feel a little comfort, in some strange way, that Jones hadn't really been as broken down by their altercation as he had first imagined. Actually, he seemed to have bounced back just fine. A relief as well as an annoyance. Jones looked awful with that expression of despair upon his face. Like a wounded puppy. Pitiful. People like Jones weren't meant to look like they were about to burst into tears.

He wandered about. He didn't go home. Lost up in his head and clenching the piece of paper in his hand, he wandered the streets aimlessly, traveling here and there under the guise that he was catching up on desperately needed exercise. Maybe some part of him, deep in the back of his mind, was just keeping his feet moving to increase the odds of bumping into Jones.

Why? To toss the note in his face, of course, and tell him that his gifts were neither needed nor wanted. Yeah. Yeah, that was why.

He walked. Morning faded into noon. His feet began to throb a bit. But still he walked. He crossed carefully through the streets and roamed the forgotten, icy trails of the park. Noon faded into a painted evening. He walked still, leaving the park behind for the glitzy, glowing streets near the Broadway. Too many people. Too much noise. He abandoned that venture quickly, and by the time the evening faded into the moonlit night, he was on his way back home, hungry and tired and feeling strangely unsatisfied.

No encounters of any kind. Good or bad.

The racing of his heart and the cool sweat upon his brow was pleasant, though, after being stationary for so many weeks. Good for him to get his muscles moving and coming out of lethargy. He was lucky he hadn't collected a bunch of clots in his legs, just sitting there all that time.

The moon glowed up on high, white and enlarged behind the thin clouds that cloaked the sky. The sounds of the street and the winter wind mingled with voices.

His house was in sight. Under the light of the pale-blue lamplight, he thought he saw shadows shifting ominously up next to the door.

The voices became louder.

Ludwig sped his pace, feeling a creep of alarm. Was someone trying to get in his house?

Not him, oh, please, anyone but Jones' father, please don't let it have been _him_.

A flash of white-gold in the lamplight.

His alarm turned into terror. Maybe it _was_ Jones' old man. For a second, he froze up, limbs falling into rigor as the thought made him shudder. What would he do? Fight or flight? As he contemplated every horrible outcome, the wind began to carry the voices towards him, and when he squinted his eyes and perked his ears, he realized that both of the voices were perfectly recognizable.

A strangely loud Antonio, barking harsh words in his native tongue. And that _other_ voice...

"Hey, listen, man, can't you just tell him that I'm here? Just tell him—"

" _Ai, cabrón, pero no te entiendo! Lárgate_!"

Antonio was shouting. An unusual event.

And he knew that _other_ voice, too, god help him.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. He had to be going insane. It was one thing to bump into each other in the street. Coming to his place of residence was another matter entirely. An unwelcome one.

Ludwig found his feet and bounded forward as the voices grew ever louder.

" _What_? Listen, stop screamin' at me, ya crazy s'um bitch, I'm not gonna hurt him or anything, I just wanna—"

" _Te voy a dar un pinche madrazo si no te vayas! Joder!"_

"Stop _screamin_ '! I can't even understand ya!"

Ludwig skidded towards the steps, and was momentarily stunned as he ground to a sudden stop.

Another moment of complete, otherworldly surrealism that he had never imagined he would ever encounter.

Antonio stood there in the doorframe, looking dark and far more imposing than Ludwig knew him to be as the light from within streamed out from behind him in an unnerving manner, and on the top step, mere inches away from Antonio's face, stood a belligerent-looking Jones, feet braced and arms spread to balance himself in case Antonio suddenly decided to reach out and give him a great shove.

Antonio's clenched fist was raised threateningly in the air. On the line, a mere totter away from explosion.

Ha. Where had Antonio's words of 'just talk to him' gone off to now? No doubt the warnings of the shopkeeper's wife had spurred him into a heightened sense of mistrust and aggressiveness. Now it wasn't just Jones, after all, it was the threat of his sire following behind like a shadow and wreaking havoc from the sidelines.

Antonio wouldn't stand for it.

But an altercation in such an enclosed space, right in front of his house, was the last thing he ever wanted, and the thought of everyone talking about it the next day with guarded snickers and amused looks made him want to die of embarrassment right there. He had to diffuse this before it got out of hand and Antonio took a great leap forward to show Jones why he had once been a champion at wrangling with the bulls in the stadiums.

With a great, deep breath, Ludwig stomped up to the stairs, and when they turned to see him coming, the look of relief on Jones' face was visible.

"Oh, hey, I was lookin' for you—"

"Antonio," Ludwig interrupted, primly keeping his eyes anywhere but on Jones, and with a wave of his hand, he attempted to usher Antonio back inside with a clipped, "Let me handle this."

Antonio held his ground, gripping the doorframe within his hands.

"Nuh uh," came the stubborn response, and Jones jumped off to the side as Ludwig marched up the stairs so that he would not be knocked over.

Antonio was watching him with a furrowed brow and a look of agitation.

"I can take him out on my own," Antonio declared, quite eagerly, not understanding that that was exactly the thing that Ludwig wanted to avoid.

"I'll get rid of him," Ludwig muttered, as Jones looked back and forth between them in incomprehension, and Antonio's looked quite agitated.

"Just let me—"

'Just let me punch him first', was probably what Antonio wanted to say, but Ludwig didn't give him the chance.

"Get back inside," he commanded, softly, and after a hesitation, Antonio crumbled beneath him and took a step back. Didn't want to cause a ruckus, either, if only for Ludwig's sake.

Jones hissed air through his teeth in relief. Antonio didn't miss it, and bristled, casting Ludwig a serious look.

"Hey, I'm gonna be right here behind the door," Antonio said, very sternly and in a thin, dangerous tone of voice that was almost not his own, "So call me if you need me."

"Sure," Ludwig said, even though he wouldn't.

Antonio took a step back, sending Jones one last withering look, and as the door shut, Ludwig heard him grumble, irritably, "I'll kick his fuckin' ass if ever tries this shit again, stupid son of a...mother...jackass."

Unintelligible muttering, and the door was shut.

He was left alone out on the steps with Jones. For a second, they just stared at each other.

Jones shuffled back and forth, hands in his pockets as he tried over and over again to smile, but every attempt fell flat, and finally he just kicked absently at a patch of ice on the stone steps and said, somewhat stiffly, "How's it goin'?"

Ludwig did not bother to dignify such a question with a response, and merely leaned back against the door, crossing his arms above his chest and hoping against hope that he still had it within him to stare Jones down.

Maybe not.

Jones just shook his head and looked around anxiously, and finally heaved a great sigh.

"Hey, look, I just—I just wanted to make sure you got my card!"

Absently, his hand flew down to his pocket, clenching the card tightly to the point of crushing it even as he sent Jones an unfriendly glare. Now was his chance to shove it back in his face, but his damn hands just wouldn't move like he wanted them to.

Jones ignored his intense stare and suddenly reached into his jacket.

"Well, I mean, it wasn't a good card, was it?" A not-so-smooth segue. Jones finally smiled, weakly and nervously, and pulled something from within his jacket, and extended his hand. "That's why I brought you a real one."

And sure enough, when Ludwig lowered his eyes, Jones was holding out a card.

His headache was suddenly blinding.

Jones just smiled, and waved the card in the air, invitingly.

"I mean, it's almost Christmas and all! Come on, everyone gets a card for Christmas, right?"

No, that wasn't right. He didn't.

He didn't take it.

"It's just a card."

Numbly, Ludwig shook his head, and stood stark still.

And for a moment, Jones' face fell a bit.

"Alright, well, then. I'll leave it right here, then!"

With that, he knelt down very carefully, and set the card down upon the mat, right in front of Ludwig's feet. No doubt he made slow, deliberate movements and kept his hands high just in case Ludwig decided to kick him straight in the face, which actually wasn't a bad idea. But he didn't, and Jones straightened back up, looking quite satisfied with himself.

Ludwig felt somewhat dazed.

Jones shrugged a shoulder, and said, "It's nothin' much. It just says, 'Merry Christmas', you know, but I mean, it's a real card. It's glittery, anyway."

A short silence. Ludwig imagined that Antonio was writhing right behind the door, ear pressed to the wood and bemoaning his non-existent English skills. The thought was amusing enough to make Ludwig a bit less hostile.

When he finally opened his mouth, all Ludwig could think of to say was, "You're crazy."

And he really meant it, too.

Jones' eyes widened a bit in surprise, and then he foundered and gave a very strained laugh, saying, "Yeah, I know! I get that a lot."

Oh, he believed that!

The breathless, harmless smile that spread across Jones' face was hard to reconcile with the calamities that he brought along with him. But, Ludwig observed, after looking this way and that, there did not seem to be anything awful trailing behind.

Jones saw him looking and tried to wave off the unspoken assumption with a twitch of his hand.

"Oh, don't worry. Old man's passed out on the couch."

That was no excuse to be here, and Ludwig said as much by straightening up and snapping, "Get out of here. I thought I told you to leave me alone?"

"I know," Jones tossed out quickly, twitching in what could have been anxiety, "I just wanted to... Well."

A deep inhale, and something dark was suddenly stirring behind the glasses perched upon Jones' nose.

A frantic question.

"Can I—can I give you something?"

"No," was his automatic response, disliking the sudden heaviness in the air, but it really didn't even matter.

Jones was already holding out his hand. Jones looked desperate all of a sudden, an almost frightening change from his usually airy confidence.

"Please. I found it. I think you should have it way more than I should. It doesn't belong with me. I don't feel right even havin' it in the house. It's like... It's not right. Please?"

Christ, what could he do? Jones had paid for the window.

What could he do?

In the end, maybe it was curiosity more than compliance that led him to hold out a palm with a testy look and an immature sigh, and, carefully, Jones placed something cool and hard into his hand. He gripped it, and pulled his hand away, but did not look down.

Jones was all but sweating in nervousness. And it was a squirming nervousness that kept Ludwig, too, from lowering his eyes.

"I'd rather you have it. It shouldn't be in my house. Maybe... I think it would feel a lot better here with you!"

It?

Jones was waiting, watching him expectantly and looking at the same time relieved and absolutely terrified.

Finally, shaking his head and exhaling, Ludwig looked down. Jones shuffled his feet. Seconds of hesitation, and then Ludwig opened his hand.

And it was like a sledgehammer.

A ribbon unfurled on either side of his palm, in those colors of red, white and black that sent a horrible lurch of longing burning through his veins like alcohol, the colors of the grand old empire that Germany had once been, and at the center of it all sat a gleaming Iron Cross.

Unscathed, every detail perfectly clear, down to the swastika in the center and the year glaring out from below, the medal of honor proudly boasting '42 and looking for all the world as though it had never even known a war. And maybe a swastika wasn't anything to boast, but this was something that a man had earned by being brave, even in the face of the enemy. Honor, not hate. Pride, not shame.

He couldn't breathe. He had not expected this. Not this.

The metal caught the glow of the blue streetlamp and lit up silver.

_Oh_. Jones couldn't have known. He couldn't have. There was no possible way that Jones could truly _understand_.

His father's Iron Cross.

When his father had come home that one and only time for leave, he had skidded down onto his knees in the kitchen as Ludwig had bounded into his arms, pulling back after minutes to show off his medal to his remaining son, telling the tale with common humbleness, and Ludwig had spent the entire afternoon tugging at the colored ribbon around his father's neck and tracing the cross in his palms, as his father crooned softly above to his mother. He had left the cross in Ludwig's care when he had gone out again, but Ludwig had given it to his mother so that she could sleep with it at night.

His father had never come back.

His father's Knight's Cross.

Hanging on the wall above the fireplace by its ribbon, sent home along with that terrible letter, and his mother had fallen asleep on the couch every night, clutching the Iron Cross in her hand and staring up at the Knight's Cross until she just couldn't cry anymore, and when the war was over and the Allied soldiers were stripping the country of everything related to Hitler, he could still remember his mother's awful shriek as they had burst into the house and taken the medals from the wall and her bare hands because of the swastikas they held in their centers. Not allowed. Denazification. The final breaking of his mother's spirit.

Jones couldn't have known. He couldn't have understood how much it _meant_ to hold that medal in his hand, even though it hadn't been his father's, even though it was a stranger's, a long-dead soldier that he knew nothing about. It was a piece of his former life held within his hand. Jones didn't understand, and by god! Neither did he.

"Why are you doing this?" Ludwig finally managed to whisper, and it took every effort to keep his voice from disintegrating into the air.

Jones took a step back, in what Ludwig liked to think was a showing of respect and an attempt to give him his space.

"I lost my old man, too. Somewhere. You know, I used to think he was the greatest thing. He told me all of this shit, and I just wanted to be _like_ him. I thought he was my hero." A pale, weak laugh. "Ha. What did I know? Took this right out of his room. I heard this story so many times. Takin' this off a dead soldier in a bunker and tying it to the end of his rifle whenever he shot across the lines so they'd know he'd already killed one of them. Makes me sick just thinkin' about it now."

Jones bowed his head, and Ludwig could barely hear his voice for how low and miserable it was.

"I gotta get it out of my house. Won't you take it? Seeing it makes me remember how fuckin' stupid I was. I can't stand seein' it there. It's not fair. I'm—I'm really _tired_ of thinking about it so much. Can you take it?"

Take it?

The second that iron had touched his palm, he had never had any intentions of letting it go again. Because Jones was right (for once); this medal did not belong with _his_ father. Not with _that_ man. Not with someone to whom this medal was a trophy, rather than a gift. Ha. Jones would have to fight him tooth and nail to rip this cross from his clutches.

But his sudden death-grip upon the Iron Cross seemed to be something of great pleasure to Jones, who, when he nodded a stiff consent, broke into a smile. Not one of those beams. Just a halfhearted effort.

"Yeah! Already looks better there," he observed wistfully, eyeing the ribbon dangling from Ludwig's fingers with a arched brow of casualness. "I think the guy it belonged to would be happy, knowin' you have it. You'll keep a good eye on it."

And then, abruptly, Jones gave a short, two-fingered salute, like good friends would do to each other, and without another word he turned on his heel, tucked his hands in his jacket, and walked down the steps.

Leaving, in a random and surprising fashion. Ludwig had expected him to linger and impose. It was easy to shoo him off with harsh words and annoyance, but seeing him go of his own volition and after such a sweeping gesture, not even seeking to pry more conversation from him, was somehow alarming. Uncomfortable. He didn't like the lingering feeling of vulnerability such an action left behind.

Jones was heading towards the sidewalk. Heavy boots making dull thuds on the damp concrete.

And Ludwig couldn't _help_ it.

"Hey."

His voice was thick.

Jones paused, and looked back over his shoulder.

"Hm?"

Ludwig gathered his nerve, and braced his shoulders as he tucked the medal into his breast-pocket, where it would be safe and sound.

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?"

Jones smiled.

"Nah. You'll tell me when you feel like it. I can wait. Say, you sleepin' enough? You look tired. You should take a break." A short wave. "See you around."

And then Jones was on the sidewalk, a second later he was around the corner, and then he was gone completely, vanishing into the dark night.

Ludwig stood still, feet glued in place.

Maybe he was just starring in the _Science Fiction Theatre_. Because something was way out of place here.

...was he dreaming? Dammit, if he woke up all of a sudden only to find himself back in his bed with shards of glass still stuck in the folds of fabric of his pants, he would just lose it. Couldn't handle that.

Reaching up, he placed a palm above his breast, and the cold hardness of the Iron Cross was still there.

For a hazy second, he nearly smiled, if only in complete disbelief, and without really thinking about it, he bent over and retrieved the card from the mat, and with a dazed mind, he turned and pulled open the door, hardly aware of the tumbling Antonio that all but landed on top of him.

"Is he gone? What did he say? What did he do? What's that? You want me to go after him? Huh? What did he _say_?"

Antonio was clutching his sleeve, tugging him inside and sending a scoping glare over the horizon, observing the surroundings to make sure the enemy was out of sight.

Ludwig merely shrugged a shoulder, and said, breathlessly, "Oh. ...nothin'."

With that, his feet glided of their own accord towards the stairs, and he heard Antonio stammer from behind, 'Wha—n- _nothin'_? Hey, wait!"

He didn't, and before he knew it he was retreating into his bedroom, feeling more like he was swimming than walking. For the first time in years, he locked the door behind him. He wanted to be alone for a while.

With wobbly arms, he set the card upon the bed, fished the little bit of paper from his pocket, and settled himself cross-legged atop the blanket, staring down at the papers like they were written in a foreign language. He had not received a Christmas card for many years, and never here, never on this side of the ocean, and never from someone who had the previous Christmas been a sworn enemy.

Should he open it?

No. It was better to leave it sealed, because if he opened it then the mystery would be gone and he would probably feel a bit disappointed. He had no great love of mystery, but where Jones was concerned, maybe it was better not to know.

He felt so overwhelmed suddenly. At a loss for coherent thoughts, let alone words, and he simply sat there in silence, drifting away. The hour grew late, and he heard only silence from downstairs. Antonio had gone to sleep.

Reaching into his coat, he removed the Iron Cross, flipping this little part of his heart and home and past absently between his fingers as he stared blankly down.

Home. That damn old song was stuck in his head again.

_How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile._

_And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile!_

_Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam._

_But give me, oh, give me the pleasures of home._

Pretty words.

But he no longer had a father, nor a mother, nor a home, and there were no more sentimental places left upon the earth. The only ones he had ever had had been damaged beyond repair.

This was his home now. His only home. No matter how hard it was to admit it.

The iron was heavy in his hand as he stared down at the cards upon the bed.

And he was momentarily confused. How did Jones make it look so easy? Charging ahead, oblivious to all obstacles, to all the danger, too foolhardy to heed the warning signs. Maybe too determined. There were times when it was necessary to go against everything around you and put your foot down and stand strong in the face of the rushing tide. But this wasn't one of those times. This was no great crisis upon the earth. No threat against the nobility of mankind. No magnificent war for the right. It was just _him_.

Just Ludwig.

Strange.

It would bring nothing but trouble.

Trouble was nothing he was a stranger to, and he was so used to winding up on the bad side of fate that maybe there just wasn't any real harm in all of this. After all, it wasn't like there was any way he could possibly sink any lower.

Jones' old man threatened to take everything. So what? He had nothing left.

He would let things go as they would. He wouldn't seek Jones out, but he wouldn't start running if he bumped into him either. And if the old son of a bitch killed him in the end, then so be it. As if he hadn't tried to do it himself.

He wouldn't move his wrist. Just let things play out. He would only be a witness, silent and still. He didn't care enough anymore to make an effort to change his destiny. Jones could try, if he wanted, and if it made him feel better. Ludwig was tired of fighting it. It was easier just to let Jones do as he would. As if the great oaf listened to anything he said, anyway.

And who knew? Maybe, just maybe, things would work out alright for him this time. Just this once.

Hope. A strange concept.

Jones had done it all for himself. But even so, it was almost amazing, how one simple gesture could suddenly break through the dark like a second sun, how thoughtful words could push back the tide of despair like the moon itself, how a random act of kindness could stop the world and send it spinning in the opposite direction.

Something so simple.

Alfred.

For the first time since before he could remember, Ludwig felt better.

The sun was still hidden behind the clouds. But he felt _better_.

The cross was heavy in his hand. He held his father all throughout the night, sleeping in his old bed back in his old bedroom in his old house, and it was his mother on the couch down below, instead of Antonio.

A gift of illusion. Remembrance. Strength from the dead.

Alfred's great recompense.

And that was enough.


	10. Waltz of the Flowers

**Chapter 10**

**Waltz of the Flowers**

Revelations.

Once few and far between, suddenly they were coming out so fast and so many that sometimes it almost made him dizzy. And while it had been easier when everything had been a straight line where absolutely no thought had been required, it was more satisfying, despite it all, to feel something different than lifelessness and dragging monotony.

Even if what he felt at most times was a bitterness so strong that it burned through him like fire that twisted his stomach and made his jaw clench until his teeth were grinding together.

Every day, something changed just a little.

But every little change was, to Alfred, an ascension to a new plane of being.

A new level. A staircase that he was climbing, slowly but steadily, with careful treads because sometimes a step collapsed beneath him or he stumbled backwards down a few, but no matter how far he got knocked back or how many steps gave out or how many obstacles presented themselves, the only way was up.

He wouldn't go back down.

The gates of hell were beneath him. Salvation above. And now, he was higher up this staircase than he had ever been, even if he still couldn't see the top, and he was determined to bound upwards as fast and as hard as he could.

He was ready to move onward.

But he couldn't go on alone, and that hurt a little to admit, for someone like him, who prided himself on being strong and sure and above all solitary—he leaned on no one and _needed_ no one. No! The opposite; people were supposed to lean on him and need _him_. He wanted to be the one that people ran to.

So it _hurt_ to find himself running after someone else. Needing someone else. Because god help him, he needed the German. He couldn't move forward with all of this if the German was still stuck on the same old step down at the bottom. His father's sins had tethered him to this man, somehow or another, and so how could he take anymore steps forward if the stubborn son of a bitch was holding his footing far below and gripping the railing, refusing to budge no matter how hard Alfred pulled?

He couldn't.

His happiness was tied in to the German's well-being, and so it was important—actually, imperative—that the German cooperated with him, because he couldn't save either of them by himself.

A rare occasion where he could admit that he needed help.

However, persistence always paid off, and after weeks and weeks of nerve-wracking tugging and struggling, he had finally managed to coax the German to take a step forward. It was almost like holding out your hand to a strange, possibly aggressive dog and waiting for it to sniff you and let it decide whether or not it was going to bite you.

He had waited. The German hadn't bit. He could get up off his knee and lower his hands and let his guard down.

Little things first. Every day, things got a little better.

Seeing that old medal in the pale hand of the German had felt a hell of a lot better than even any of those fumbling, sweaty encounters with barely-known girls on muggy summer nights.

And now that he had successfully infiltrated at least some part of the German's defenses without even _once_ being punched in the face (success at its best!—he'd been slapped, sure, but that didn't count), he was emboldened and even more determined than ever before.

Watching the German through the window had been exhilarating, if only by knowing that he shouldn't have been there at all.

Things couldn't go back.

He was in a new plane, where it was almost really worth it to look at himself in the mirror. His first revelation of this new plane had come the second that the Iron Cross had been placed in the German's cool hand. The revelation that not only could he save the German, but that he also had the power to _hurt_ his father. Deep and sharp and without even raising his fist in violence.

It hadn't been so hard. Actually, it had been really easy. So easy that it was almost criminal.

The old man had been drinking so much lately that opportunities to ransack his room came in frequent intervals, and when he was awake, he was so out in space that he didn't even seem to realize what was going on around him. Easy to take advantage of.

Alfred had used that advantage to tread upstairs without a sound, shut the door and lock it behind, and go about things however he deemed fit.

The old Iron Cross had been a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.

The Iron Cross had always hung up on the wall above his father's bed, a trophy and maybe his father's idea of a good luck charm or a dream catcher. Ha; the thought was almost unnerving—dreams of former glory and self-righteousness brought on by the medal of a dead man dangling above the pillow.

It had occurred to Alfred, on one of those days when he stood outside the shop with his hands in his pockets and found himself staring inside at a man who was intent on pretending he wasn't there, that maybe the Iron Cross would have been better used to bring dreams to someone who had never sought to cause harm.

It had been a simple thing, to snatch the cross from the wall and tuck it in his pocket, taking it out only in the safety of his own room to examine it with his own eyes. He had shined it up a bit, and had been relieved that there were no blood stains on the ribbon.

Now that that had gone over so much better than he could have ever hoped for, and since his old man hadn't really even seemed to notice, the bitterness was alleviated a bit, and it became a goal of sorts to relieve this house of any and all things related to his father's war-time glory.

The helmet had been long since gone. The Iron Cross was gone.

He spent hours wandering around his father's room as the old man snored away downstairs, pacing here and there and contemplating what to ditch next, and where. Because some of these items, like the old maps marked with Allied advances and the rifles and the little jar of dirt from Normandy, simply weren't suitable to give to the German, and doing so would have only done more harm than good.

He could sell them, maybe, to pawn shops or street vendors. He could give them off to random people. If nothing else, he could go out and toss them all in the Hudson. Maybe the flag from the Reichstag would go next. Better to sell that to a shop for collectors.

He almost laughed, sometimes. If he'd known all along that it was really this _easy_! He wondered how much of his father's shit he could pawn off before the old man began to realize that things were turning up missing. All of it, if he could. Every last piece. Down to his medals and his fuckin' uniform.

Even his boots.

Anything. _Anything_ to _hurt_ him.

If this was the only way to do it, if this was the only thing he could take that the old bastard cherished, then so be it.

Maybe the old man had been a war hero, maybe he'd been a single father, maybe he'd had bigger dreams than what had played out for them, but, to Alfred, the ends just hadn't justified the means. Turning his back on his father now was really the only thing he could think to do, even if in doing so maybe he wasn't much better than his father. What else could he do?

It would have been harmful and unforgivably foolish for him to believe that he could possibly find a way through this that would fix everyone. Running after the German was causing his father to drink himself to death.

He couldn't have them both. It was one or the other.

And he had made his decision, so now, he sat at the kitchen table, tapping his spoon absently on the table as he listened to his father grunting and groaning on the couch as he struggled to come back from the unconsciousness of hangover.

Just waiting. His coffee was getting cold.

Resting his chin in his palm and staring ahead into space, Alfred waited and waited, and tried to suppress the smile that threatened to creep across his face. It was hard not to feel a little devious and a little self-satisfied. Knowing things his father did not. Working on the sidelines, so to speak.

What a thrill!

A dull thud from the living room and a moan of pain was the sign that his father had rolled off the couch and onto the floor, and after a few minutes of silence, he hauled himself to his feet and came staggering into the kitchen, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the morning light and looking very pale. Alfred observed the dark circles under his eyes and the distant, confused gaze.

The thrill faded a bit.

It was easier to focus on how good he felt extending a hand to the German than it was to watch his father deteriorate before his eyes.

But sometimes it came sneaking up on him.

A silence.

His father finally caught his eye, squinted as though in thought, and then, slowly, came up with, "Mornin'."

"Morning."

For a moment, he wasn't really sure that his dad knew who he _was_.

Finally, with steady movements, he pushed a mug of coffee forward and said, much more casually than he felt, "It's a little cold."

His father stood there, leaning against the frame and squinting, head tilted and eyes a bit dazed, and then, he finally took a step forward, muttering to himself, "Oh. Alfred."

Yup. Alfred. Who did he think it was?

As his father sat before him and cradled the mug in his hands, Alfred leaned back, feeling a little disheartened without really knowing why, and added, carefully, "Maybe you should lay off the whiskey a little."

His father waved him off with an errant hand, and Alfred only fell still and silent. In guilt, perhaps, since it was really his fault that his old man was takin' to the bottle so much.

"You workin' today?" came the sudden inquiry, and Alfred merely leaned back, crossed his arms behind his neck, and shook his head.

He knew damn well why his old man was asking. Seeing what he was up to. Where he was going.

He hadn't confronted his father about his vigilantism, never hinting or letting on that he had been in the vicinity at the time and had seen, from a safe distance, that travesty.

Two things kept him from opening his mouth and screeching, 'What the hell were ya _thinkin'_?'

Firstly, his own cowardice, which forced his throat closed whenever he wanted to tell the old bastard what was what. A fact that he was thoroughly ashamed of, but very aware of. It was too hard to get over that same old fear that had been instilled in him so long ago, which was why he kept his rebellion firmly in the shadows unless it was absolutely impossible to do so.

The girls would have called him two-faced.

Secondly, common sense. Since he had distanced himself from his father, things had changed. No longer did his father raise his hand to him, perhaps a subconscious attempt to woo him back to the way things had been before, spurred on by loneliness and worry and a sense that he was being abandoned in his most vulnerable years. Alfred hadn't responded the way he'd wanted, so now, he let loose his pent-up aggression in a way that was somehow even worse.

On the German.

Certainly a giant step back down that fuckin' staircase.

It was better to keep his mouth shut for now; confronting his father about it might only make him more dangerous, especially with his judgment and thinking messed up by too much whiskey.

It had been one thing, coming after _him_. Going after the German was out of bounds. He was going to have to tread lightly, for now, and continue his work on the sidelines, keeping a close watch on the German from afar and making sure that everything went smoothly. But it would be hard to get past all the nosy sons of bitches that seemed to be lurking around every corner, ready to call his old man up with the newest gossip.

Why couldn't people mind their own fuckin' business? It was frustrating.

He'd just have to work around it, and prepare himself for the possibility that, should things continue on the same path, he might be forced to jump headfirst into a fray.

After a few sips of cold coffee, his father looked up at him, wincing a bit as his head surely pounded, and then said, a bit hopefully, "Why don't you go out with me today? We can go out to Schacht's for dinner tonight. We haven't been there for 'bout a year!" A strange, weak smile. "Spend some time with your old man, huh?"

Averting his gaze down to his own coffee, Alfred only said, nonchalantly, "Can't. Sorry. I promised Matthew we'd go down to the harbor today."

That was a lie.

His father's face fell a bit, and he only grumbled, "What're ya doin' down in the harbor?"

"Watchin' ships," was his simple response, and with that, he pushed his chair back from the table and pulled himself to his feet, walking with deliberate steps to the door as he left his father to wallow in solitude and misery.

As he went, he heard a low, bitter, "If it's not the little Adolf, it's the fuckin' frostback."

The guilt was quickly replaced with anger, and he made a point of slamming the door behind him as hard as he could, if only to startle the old man into silence in his wake.

Wouldn't he ever just shut _up_?

Jumping down the steps and into the slushy streets, he walked just for the hell of it; Matthew was working. There was no one to go to the harbor with, but he went anyway, if only to relax a little.

The German needed a few days without him.

He sat down on a pier, and watched the ships on the water until night fell, trying to keep his mind clear of his father's voice. The longer he was around the water, the more he contemplated giving his father's war relics a burial at sea.

By the time he got home, he was not surprised to see that his old man had already gone off to bed.

He scrounged up something to eat, and plotted his next move.

The days passed as normally as he could have ever expected them to, although he couldn't help but feel a little more devious than before, as he picked through his father's room whenever he was downstairs and drunk, and he successfully nicked the Reichstag flag, tied it up in a plastic bag filled with rocks, and, under cover of darkness, hurled it out into the river, where it would slowly drift downstream in the currant.

He was prouder of himself a little more each day. He felt hopeful sometimes, about the future.

But he hadn't really expected what came next.

His second revelation came as suddenly and randomly as the first.

It happened on a cold, snowy day, close to the New Year.

The revelation that his father was really just...

"Hey, Alfred," came the cry from upstairs that day, as he sat on the couch and flipped through channels with boredom, and he hadn't acknowledged his father's cry at first.

"Alfred! You hear me?"

"No," he said, petulantly.

Deaf to his response, his father came halfway down the stairs, brow furrowed and looking a little frustrated. Alfred glanced up, and when his father spoke again, his words brought on a jolt of adrenaline.

"Say, I'm goin' over to Tom's later. He's got a little grandbaby he wanted to show some medals off to. You remember that old Iron Cross I had? You haven't seen it layin' around have ya? Can't find the damn thing."

For a second, Alfred sat there, the rush of adrenaline effectively closing his throat, and then he finally managed to croak, "Nah. Haven't seen it."

Damn. He was getting good at lying.

His father shrugged a restless shoulder, and said, "Guess I missed it somewhere. I'll look around some more."

Leaping to his feet in alarm, Alfred was quick to say, "I'll help out."

Racing to the stairs to outpace his old man, he entered the bedroom and made a point of 'helping', while in all actuality he was just keeping a close eye on the chest and making sure that his father didn't sift through it long enough to realize that not only was the medal missing, the helmet and the flag were too.

He opened dresser drawers and looked under loose papers and old books, as his father looked through the closet, and the pounding of his heart was so loud that he was surprised it wasn't audible.

A moment of stillness, and his father, lips pursed and looking agitated, grumbled, "Damn thing. The hell did I put it?"

"It's around somewhere," Alfred said, his voice surprisingly smooth for his anxiety, "It didn't just get up and walk out."

Ha. Right.

"Well, let's see."

His father reached out to move aside pillows and the blanket, and it was then that Alfred realized, for the very first time, that his father's hands were shaking. Had they shook before? He had never noticed.

Suddenly, Alfred really noticed his father's grey hair, the veins on his hands, and the paleness of his face.

...had he declined so rapidly? He had been so strong before. The shaking hands of an old man.

"You see it anywhere?"

Startled from immobility, Alfred regained his footing, and carried on.

"Not yet."

And so, heart thudding with guilty adrenaline, he helped his father look here and there for an item that he knew was no longer around, and for a while, his hands trembled almost as much as his father's did.

His chest ached.

"Maybe it fell under the bed," the old man grunted, as he reached out to grab the frame.

He tried to pull it. Nothing happened.

Finally, after horrible minutes of watching the man that had been able to lift him up with one arm when he was a child struggling to move a wooden bed-frame with two hands, he stepped forward and managed to say, "Hey, it'll turn up somewhere. Don't worry about it. Doesn't Tom have his own damn medals to look at?"

His father fell still for a moment, and mercifully, his shaking hands fell down to his sides, and he lurched backwards with a grunt.

"Yeah," he finally grumbled. "Yeah, it'll pop up. Probably just put it somewhere and can't think where."

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, and Alfred followed, that old feeling of melancholy coming back up like a tidal wave.

Old man. Yeah, that was right.

Old man...

Even through the hate and the bitterness and all the torment, it still _hurt_ to know that his old man was just that. Time was catching up, and fast. And his own uprising was causing his father's decline. The more he fought, the further his father fell. But even so, he couldn't stop, and knowing that pushing forward would surely bring his father to an early grave was just another dagger of self-hatred that he would have to live with, even if he would spend nights later on crying himself to sleep. He'd known all along, hadn't he, that he could only have one or the other. Not both.

His stomach churned a bit.

The second his father pulled on his coat and walked out the door an hour or so later, he grabbed up his own coat and slunk out.

He needed to do something to get this goddamn self-hatred off his shoulders. And there was really only one person who could cheer him up like he needed.

He cut across the street, dodging traffic and cutting corners, sliding in and out of alleys with skills that put the cats to shame, and when he came up to the door he sought and brought down a heavy fist, he was already feeling a little bit better.

Just a little.

He brought up his hand to knock again, but as it fell the door was yanked open, and his fist nearly connected with a handsome, straight nose.

"Whoa!"

"Sorry," he yelped, as his uncle reached out defensively to grab his hand and force it still in midair.

"Do you always knock so, ah, enthusiastically?"

"Only when I'm excited."

Francis smiled then, and quipped, "Which means to say always, right?"

Before he could respond, the door was held open, and a hand on his arm pulled him through the threshold.

"Well, come in, come in!"

Taking note of Francis' neat clothing, pulled-back hair, and overwhelming cologne, Alfred quickly realized that he might have been intruding on personal time, and it was with a little bit of amusement that he asked, "Are you expecting someone?"

Led into the kitchen, Alfred observed the table, and was certain.

Candles, flowers, wine. Date night.

"I'm always expecting someone," Francis said, rather airily, and sent him a cool gaze. "So, what brings you to my side of the woods?"

Side of the woods. Ha. It was these little quirks in his speech that made Francis so charming perhaps, and gave away his overseas heritage to anyone who would have really cared. Had his father been here, he would have been quick to bark, irritably, 'It's 'neck of the woods'. Learn it right.'

Well, the women seemed to love the accent. Obviously.

Shrugging a shoulder, Alfred inclined his head to the wine.

"Well, I was just around. But, hey, far be it from me to ruin a romance!"

He took a step back, not so depressed that he needed to interrupt one of his uncle's love connections. Even if there always seemed to be a lot of them. Francis, _always_ the charmer.

"I'll come back at a better time."

Francis was upon him before he could bail.

"Stay!" he cried, as Alfred backed towards the door. "Stay, stay! I'll cancel. The sea is full of fish, isn't it, and I only have one nephew!"

With that, Francis reached out and grabbed a handful of his shirt, tugging him away from the door and thrusting him quite unceremoniously back into the kitchen.

"Sit down. You can be my date tonight!"

With a snort, Alfred obeyed and fell down into a chair, resting his elbows on the spotless tablecloth as Francis disappeared into the hall to pick up the phone.

As Francis began to croon away, no doubt softening the blow of a canceled date with promises of making up for it, Alfred drummed his fingers on the table, and looked about.

No matter the weather outside or the gloominess in his head, being inside of Francis' house seemed to have a way of putting him in a good mood. An instant picker-upper.

From the fashionable furniture in the living room to the endless breads and pastries in the kitchen, from the flowers in the windowsill garden to the antiques in the basement, there really wasn't a place in the world he'd rather be when he was feeling down. Who could stay melancholy in the presence of cheeriness and overindulgence? And on to that, there was something else that drew him back to this place when he needed guidance. There was something in this house that he could not get anywhere else on earth.

His mother.

Or, anyway, a feel and reminder of her.

Francis' walls were slathered with photographs of her. Dresses that had belonged to his mother hung in the closet in the empty bedroom. Old perfumes sat on the vanity, along with creams and makeup that were kept meticulously dusted and in the same place they had sat for over twenty years.

A moment frozen in time.

Stepping into that bedroom was like walking with phantoms. Indescribable. There was nothing like it.

He loved seeing pieces of his mother here and there, a woman he would have given anything in the world for just to say 'hello' to, even just once, just to look at her and see her, and it was worth the feeling of longing just to sift through the closet and see clothes that she had worn, but oh...

At the same time, it made him want to burst into tears. And not for his mother. For Francis. Francis couldn't let _go_. He couldn't bring himself to box up all of these things and put them in the basement. He couldn't bring himself to take down the dresses and give them away or sell them. He wouldn't move a thing. Not a thing. Alfred could understand why, in a way. He'd heard the story.

1916.

The height of the first great war.

People fleeing all around, and it had been a great desperation that had led Francis' parents to take their son before them, only six years old, strap his infant sister onto his back, and place two tickets into his hand. Too poor to afford their own tickets, they'd smoothed down Francis' hair, kissed him on his forehead, and sent him off with a neighbor who was fleeing, too, on a ship headed for Ellis Island.

Francis' father had told him, 'We'll come after you, soon. Don't get off until you see the statue. They won't join the war, but we gave them that statue, so they'll let you in.'

They had.

But his parents had never come, and Francis, always clinging dutifully to his sister and far too mature for his age, had survived on the kindness of the neighbor that had led him down to the ship. The neighbor had explained to him, when he was a little older, that he had gotten word that his parents had died in a midnight bombing raid.

Francis became not only big brother, but a guardian as well.

They had always been together, Francis and his sister, and that was why it had been so _hard_ to let her go the first time, to the man who would become her husband. That was why her death, so young and so unexpected, had been so devastating. Francis' only remaining family.

Strange, how a woman's death could bring men down.

Alfred wondered if maybe he was lucky, in some way, not to have known his mother long enough to where her death would have brought him down, too.

Francis couldn't let go. His father had tried to forget. Both of them had gone far overboard in an effort to stave off grief, in the wrong directions. His father had tried to get rid of every reminder. Francis clung to them too fiercely. Neither of them had ever really recovered from it.

Look at them!

His father, who _had_ to have been a good man long ago to attract a good woman, was left as only a bitter, hateful shell, always angry and always volatile and always hovering above Alfred in a manner that was overbearing and possessive and almost desperate. Never _happy_. Unable to accept change. Lonely and miserable and drinking himself to death.

Francis, who had been forced into the role of big brother and guardian so young, had been so devastated at losing the only person left on earth who had really _loved_ him that he went out every day looking for someone to keep him company because he couldn't bear to be alone. He couldn't stand the sound of silence. It almost didn't seem to matter who he was with, as long as he wasn't alone. Keeping items perfectly straight and clean and ready for use, as though some part of him still expected his sister to come walking back through the door.

Maybe they could have helped each other, if they didn't hate each other so much. Each too proud to try and let bygones be bygones. And Alfred was stuck in between, the only living piece of his mother left upon the earth.

He loved his mother. He always would. He admired her. Idolized, even.

But it would have been nice if either one of them (Francis on normal occasions and his father only when drunk) could have ever looked at him and, instead of saying, 'you have your mother's eyes', maybe say something about _him_.

Instead of 'you're getting really tall', they'd say, 'you're tall like your mother'. Instead of 'you're pretty smart', they'd say, 'you're as smart as your mother was'. Instead of 'you're growing up to be so handsome', they'd say, 'you've got your mother's good looks'.

He was proud to be his mother's son, and he was proud that he carried on her legacy, but...

He wasn't his mother.

It was undermining his confidence in himself, and maybe it made him selfish and egotistical, but he wanted to be set apart. He was Alfred. Not his mother.

A movement at his side drew his eyes, and when he looked over, Francis came walking back into the kitchen, smoothing back loose hairs with his hands and looking a bit sheepish.

"Well!" he said, as he caught Alfred's eye, "I only got called a son of a bitch once!"

"Only once?" Alfred was quick to tease. "Yeah, but how many times did you get called a bastard?"

"About six."

Alfred barked a laugh, as Francis came over, an unconcerned smile upon his face, and quickly uncorked the bottle of wine.

"Well, you know how things happen," he said, as he poured Alfred a glass, "You get called a bastard one day and the next day you're a prince charming again." Alfred sent him a look, and he amended, "Well, for me, anyway. You're probably called a bastard _every_ day."

"I try. What can I say? I don't go for classy ladies like you do."

Gloomy thoughts and feelings gone as quickly as the breeze, Alfred leaned back into his seat, and for a moment, watching Francis beaming away as he set up dinner, he forgot why he even came over.

It didn't matter. Just spending time with someone who acted like a father was enough.

Leering up over a glass, Francis asked, coyly, "So, where's that pretty girl you've been hanging out with lately?"

Wincing a bit, Alfred narrowed his eyes and grumbled, "I haven't been hanging out with her. She's been sneakin' up on me."

"Well, don't be so excited about it! Ha, wish she'd come sneaking up on me."

All but choking on his food, Alfred managed to send his uncle a look of horror, and rasp, weakly, "Little young for you, isn't she? But hey, if you'd like to take her off my hands—"

"That's alright."

They shared a smile, and fell comfortably into small talk and chatter, the candles melting down and the smell of roses and roasted chicken wafting around, and every time that Francis looked up at him and smiled, he couldn't help but feel that this was how dinner at home was supposed to be.

Enjoyable. A sense of family. Just talking about whatever came to mind.

Francis was a chatterbox, that much was certain, and there was never a quiet moment with him. They talked about everything under the sun. Well, almost. Conversations about women didn't seem to last very long, and maybe it was a little too obvious, as they sat here with only each other as company, that they didn't have much experience in meaningful, long-term relationships. Their beds were always empty in the morning.

Francis, however, seemed confident that one of these days, he'd actually find a way to keep one of the dates from ever ending. Wishful thinking, perhaps. Maybe some men were meant to be eternal bachelors. It would be a little strange to see Francis ever actually settle down. Seeing him actually make it to the altar would have been a minor miracle.

Well, some things weren't mean to be.

And moods, Alfred discovered, could change quickly.

Finally, after the bottle of wine was as empty as both of their beds, Francis turned bleary eyes up to him, and sent him a strange, strained smile.

A moment of heavy silence.

Alfred smiled back, breathlessly.

"What?"

Francis shifted in his seat, back and forth, and then shook his head, and asked, tentatively and carefully and with false carelessness, "So! How's your father been doing?"

Alfred opened his mouth, and quickly fell still.

Oh, yeah. That was why he'd come over here. To forget about his old man's shaking hands.

Trying to keep the air light, he finally said, "Same as always, I guess."

Francis sent him a look that bordered on disbelief, and Alfred squirmed a bit.

"Why do you ask?"

"He called me last week."

...dread.

Alfred's heart sank. He hadn't expected that. Oh, Christ, had the old man been harassing Francis again for his own behavior? He'd keel over dead.

Frozen and voiceless, he could only sit there in silence as Francis tilted his glass this way and that, lips pushed out thoughtfully as he tapped the bottom of the cup on the table.

Finally, he carried on.

"He was drunk. Looking for you, actually. When I told him you weren't here, he asked me about your mother."

The shock burned up into embarrassment, and it was the most mortifying thing he could think of, his stupid old man calling Francis in a drunken stupor and breaking Francis' heart all over again by asking for a woman that had been long-since gone.

He reached up, and ran fingers through his hair in an effort to appear nonchalant.

"What—what did he say?"

Francis wasn't really smiling anymore, keeping his gaze firmly on the tablecloth in what was obviously a moment of great vulnerability.

"He asked if he could talk to her, because he'd lost his boy and he didn't want her to be mad at him."

_Oh_.

He buried his face in his palms, and resisted the urge to groan in frustration.

Maybe he should have been more concerned for his father and his increasingly strange and unpredictable behavior, but all he could think of now was how much it must have _hurt_ Francis to hear those words. How many memories it must have brought back. How many wounds it must have opened.

As he sat there, shaking his head to himself and feeling more humiliated than he could ever really remember, and so ashamed, Francis snorted, to himself, and tried to move onward.

"That's why I ask. Has he been doing this a lot lately, by any chance?"

Alfred, leaning back in his chair, split his fingers and stared up at the ceiling.

Yeah. Yeah he had. Hadn't his father mistaken him not so long ago for a colonel? And that morning, squinting at him for so long before recognizing him.

Damn. Just what he needed. Now, more than ever before, how could he bring himself to stand up to the old man? If the old man was getting _sick_... Christ, raising his voice up like he wanted might push his father over the edge. Give him a heart attack, or just cause him to shut down all together. Then he'd have to walk around with _that_ , feelin' like a fuckin' murderer.

His father had been alright until all of this had started.

Murderer.

"Maybe you should take him to a doctor."

He started, and turned to Francis with wide eyes of guilt.

"I..."

A doctor? For what? To hear a diagnosis that he might not want to hear? To hear that he might be bound to the old man in another, worse way—that of caretaker? He didn't want to. He was finally getting his life on the path that he wanted. He didn't want to get sidetracked by this.

Not now.

And surely he was a horrible person for it, but god, he didn't want to worry about any of that for now. All of his attention was occupied elsewhere.

Francis saw his silence, and, with a very thin smile, he stood up and walked over to a cabinet, producing another bottle of wine with swift hands.

"Ah, look," Francis began, as he brought up the corkscrew, "Let's not talk about it tonight. You do what want to do, and I'll back you up, whatever you decide. For now, let's just keep drinking."

"That sounds good to me," he finally breathed, in relief, and was more than happy to end that conversation and start up new ones.

Didn't wanna think about any of that now. Wine was a pretty good enabler for forgetting unpleasant things.

The hour was getting late.

It had started to rain outside, a cold, miserable mixture of water and snow, but everything was warm inside, and when his glass was refilled, he no longer had any intentions of leaving Francis' house tonight.

And Francis seemed happy at the prospect.

"Say, you should have brought your friend with you," Francis said, cheeks flushed and the smile on his face sloppy, "Matthew. He's a weird little thing, isn't he? The more the merrier. I don't mind having you guys over every once in a while."

"Why would I bring him? So you guys can sit there and talk about me in French? I know your game."

Francis only smiled.

But, that offer brought forth the thought that suddenly kept popping into Alfred's head...

"Well," he began, trying to appear casual, "maybe next time I'll bring someone else."

"Oh! A new friend?"

After a hesitation, the wine helping him out, Alfred felt the smile spreading over his face.

"Yeah," he said. "You'll like him."

"I'm sure I will," Francis drawled, as he shifted a bit haphazardly. "Especially since you seem to have a knack for picking such handsome friends."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

But inside, just the thought of it was enough to send the adrenaline coursing. Oh, wow, what a thing it would be! To have _him_ over for dinner. To have a third person at the table. That would have been something like a walking dream.

Maybe Francis wouldn't have minded.

Maybe.

Once the second bottle was empty, and feeling very warm and very flustered, Alfred, more than a little tipsy, extended conversation to a subject that once would have been way out of his comfort zone, and still _would_ be if not for the help of alcohol :

The German.

Francis had opened the door. He was just walking through it.

"Say," he began, airily, "Do you remember that German that the guys on the block used to go after a lot?"

Francis glanced over, a strange half-smile on his face. Not surprising; mentioning Germans, in his experience, had usually never let to anything good, and sometimes even to something a little sinister.

"Which one? There were lots."

A tingle of excitement, at trying to tell someone. His finger tapped the table.

"The tall one. Used to walk his dog in the park a lot."

"Ah," Francis said, and it didn't really surprise Alfred when he added, "The looker? Tall, blond, blue-eyed?"

Figured. Francis usually remembered 'the pretty ones' more than the others.

"Yeah."

"A little. I never talked to him. Why?"

He didn't miss the trepidation on Francis' face, and it made his excitement dull down just a little, knowing that Francis was not expecting to hear something pleasant. It stung, to think of himself before.

Behind him. All behind him. He had to move forward. Staircase, going up. With a deep breath, he tapped his fingers on the table all the faster, and said, slowly, "Well. What if I said that I was thinking of inviting him over for dinner?"

The shock on Francis' face should have been funny. It wasn't. It hurt. Was it something so out of the ordinary for him to do?

"You've been talking to him?" came the incredulous question, and Alfred nodded. "Does your father know?"

"Kind of."

Eh. An evasive answer.

He tried to shake it off, and, feeling a little confident, he asked, "So, what would you say? Huh? Ha, having a German over for dinner?"

There was a strange silence that dampened his confidence a little.

Francis sat still, trying to keep his gaze focused. And then he spoke.

"Well, I'm not gonna lie to you, Alfred," Francis began, slurring the ends of words a bit as the wine flowed through his veins, "I have to say, well, just for me, you know, I don't care much for them."

Oh. Not what he'd expected.

Seeing the furrowing of Alfred's brow, even through his inebriation, Francis was quick to add, "But, that being said, that's just me! God knows, I mean, if you wanted to—that's your decision, you know? I know it's probably not right, but damn, still thinking about them marching all over Paris, it still gets me a little riled."

Of course.

Marching on Paris. Dropping the bombs from above that had killed his parents. Francis, like his father, had motives that were buried in war.

And for a moment, Alfred wanted to be a child again, so that he could stomp his foot and cry, 'Can't adults ever stop making everything about _war_?'

War was war. Bad things happened in war. But that didn't mean that all people were bad, even if they'd lost. Matthew told him once that 'history's written by the heroes, and heroes always need bad guys'.

There weren't any bad guys now. Just people trying to move forward. Not everything had to be about what had happened during a war. Let it go.

He didn't have a chance to open his mouth; Francis, always able to sense the shifting of a mood, went into damage control.

"Not to say he isn't a good person! I don't know him—hell, he's probably a great guy. I try to avoid that side when I can. They don't care much for me, either. French and Germans, you know, kind of weird. But, like I said, that's your decision. I think it's really great, what you're doing! When I said I'd support you, I meant for everything. I'd never shut the door, if you really do want to bring him by. I'm never a rude host, so don't worry about that. Your friends are my friends."

Well, that was little comforting. The most he could really hope for, he supposed. A hell of a lot better than the hostility from the other side.

Looking him up and down with a fond eye, Francis broke into a smile.

"That's something your mother would have done, you know? She was always trying to help people. You really do remind me so much of her."

The look of adoration in Francis' eyes was both exhilarating, and disappointing.

Nothing for it.

Tipsiness slowly gave way to inebriation.

Francis started to tell bad jokes and stories that usually ended up in innuendos, giggling away helplessly as he reached out and slapped Alfred on the back every so often, and Alfred couldn't help but laugh along.

Almost midnight.

And even though he was smiling now, and even though he had to rest his head on the table to keep it from swimming, Alfred still couldn't help but think about it, and still knew.

Francis didn't really _understand_. He didn't get it. Him and the German. Francis thought it was charity. A project Alfred was taking up in an effort to distance himself from his father. A game.

It was so much more than that.

How could be possibly make Francis understand, when there was no way he'd ever be able to open up his mouth and explain in words how much all of this _meant_ to him? How much it meant. How much it hurt. Even if he _were_ so eloquent, his pride would not allow him to speak the words that were in his head, and even thinking about standing in front of anyone and trying to explain and expose some kind of vulnerability within himself, putting everything he had right on his sleeve, oh _god_! He would never be able to say it. It was so _easy_ to speak for other people, but he couldn't ever speak for himself. He couldn't ever put into words the _feeling_ of picking the German up off the street. He couldn't possibly describe the way his heart had soared when he had almost been given a smile. He couldn't ever write down the way his chest had ached when the medal had exchanged hands. His curse.

It wasn't Francis' fault that he didn't understand. Who ever could, when he couldn't _say_ it?

Francis' giggles finally died down into whispers, and then murmurs, and then nothing at all, as he succumbed to too much alcohol. Alfred made it up to his feet somehow, and managed to stagger into his mother's old room before he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

Rain fell outside.

In the morning, he pushed aside his headache, set the bed back the way it had been, and set out into the cold, wet streets, as reluctant to go home as he usually was. This time, his reluctance was fueled by guilt. He didn't really care to see the old man falling apart.

_'Maybe you should take him to the doctor.'_

No.

He'd wait, and see how things played out. Only as a last resort would he risk the possibility of being bound to the old son of a bitch for longer than he had anticipated. He didn't want him _dead_. He just didn't want to _see_ him anymore.

As the days passed and the New Year came creeping ever closer, he found himself wandering the streets a lot, spending most of his time with Matthew or Francis and playing a very intense game of hide-and-seek with Alice, who seemed determined to leap out from shadows and hunt him down come hell or high water. But her high brow usually worked in his favor, and most of the time she was too reluctant to step into the mud and sludge to tail after him when he started running.

He stepped into the other side of town when he felt safe enough, but he usually found himself disappointed.

The German wasn't ever out.

Not in the shop. Not in the streets. No doubt he was off for the rest of the holiday, and taking some well-deserved time to relax and get some sleep, but it was a little disappointing all the same.

He had wanted to kick the ball a little farther and hazard an out of the blue, 'Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow night?'

Nowhere to be found.

Alfred thought sometimes about knocking on the door, but decided against it. He wasn't really looking forward to finding himself back in front of the German's bellowing, crazy friend or roommate or whatever the hell he was. Last time, he had a feeling he'd been a breath away from being on the wrong end of a flying tackle. That might be a step backwards.

Days passed.

The weather was more miserable than usual. Never any reprieve from the rain and snow and sleet.

But the city was alive on the last night in December.

Crowded streets.

On New Year's eve, he found himself wandering the streets alone, pushing through the crowds, hands tucked in his pockets and damp from sleet.

Solitary.

Not for lack of offers; Francis and Matthew had invited him to their houses, his father had asked him to stay home, and some of the girls from school had called him up and invited him to parties. Alice called, too, and offered to come keep him company.

He refused. He wanted to be alone.

The city was loud as hell in the main streets, as people crowded as close as they could together and babbled away and stared up at the sky as the fireworks shot up and over the skyline, absorbed in each other and the fun of the night. Ready and willing to spend several hours in the cold to wait for the ball to drop over Times Square. Music, reporters, plenty of cameras.

He was usually front and center in these celebrations.

This year, too much melancholy. He didn't feel like being rowdy, like the crowd around him. He cut through them, and drifted into the quieter streets, taking a little comfort in the dim light and silence, as the glow in the distance called the city out to play. He wandered about without really thinking about it, letting his feet lead him where they would. And where they led him, in the end, didn't really surprise him much.

He walked the streets that had now become familiar to him. Past the closed market, the little German store, past the dark alleys and the quiet houses. Places he had come to look forward to.

The dark streets were lit up in passing intervals by the fireworks above, and he took advantage of the bright bursts to lift his head, and look around. Just in case.

It was easy, in this cold, sleeting mess, to just feel miserable and disheartened, but he retreated up into his head, and it was with a sense of dreamy tranquility that he took sight of familiar landmarks, went back in time, and tried to imagine how things would be different now, if he'd done something different then. The German would have been smiling long ago, that was for sure.

In moments like these, living up in his head was a little better. His own little world.

Stepping in puddles, jacket already soaked, hair sticking to his scalp and glasses foggy, he was still smiling.

Things would get better.

But sometimes, things still caught him off guard. Sometimes, there were dismal reminders that not everyone could stand back, and think for themselves. It was when he passed by the old street that had _that incident_ attached to it, head low and shivering a little, damp and cold, that he saw the shadows moving on the side.

Lurching in the darkness.

Slowing his step, he turned his head in a burst of alarm, tensing his shoulders and clenching his fists. Who knew what lurked in these streets at night? Manhattan was dangerous in the dark. But nothing ran out at him, and there was no one tailing him.

And then a great firework burst above, lighting the street up pale pink.

He saw it.

Old Schulze's house. And on the doorstep, under cover of darkness and giggling away, was a kid. Another firework lit up the sky, and he could see what the little hellion was up to. The sound and smell of spray-paint.

Alfred squinted his eyes, and saw.

The kid had painted the entire door, from top to bottom, with dozens of little swastikas. For a moment, he was too stunned to move, and the kid, looking over either shoulder, hadn't seen him standing there on the other side of the street. He was still giggling, nervously, knowing that he was doing something he shouldn't. He had been dared to, perhaps.

Alfred was suddenly out of his head, and crashing down to earth.

A rush.

The anger blazed up, and so did the horror. Because it was like looking at himself. It wasn't some little punk standing there, spray-paint in hand. It was _him_. It was him. All over again. _Oh_ , the stupid things he had done. All the things he'd _done_. To this old woman, who had been so sweet to him when he'd been younger. Who had offered kindness. And what had he given her in return?

Hate. Pain.

Seeing himself standing there, painting a swastika on that door, and seeing her crying so hard afterwards. Couldn't stand that memory. That thought.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, he straightened his back and marched across the streets, his boots heavy on the pavement, and by the time he was noticed, it was too late. He was too angry to just let it go.

The kid saw him coming, and made a motion to run. Alfred was too fast. It was just a boy, ten or twelve, and that was the only thing that kept Alfred from decking him and knockin' him the fuck out, but he still grabbed the little brat by the collar and gave him a firm, ruthless shake, nearly lifting him off the ground as he cried, angrily, "What the hell are ya _doin'_ , you little bastard? Huh? What's wrong with you? Did your mama teach you to pick on little old ladies? _Huh_? Did she?"

The boy stared up at him in terror.

Alfred shook him again. He shook the kid so hard because he wished he could go back and shake himself. He _wished_ that someone had shaken him, then, instead of cajoling him. He wished somebody had knocked some sense into him, instead of him having to find it himself.

The can slipped from the kid's hand and rolled down the steps, falling into the gutter, and it was only when the kid began to cry that Alfred let go of his collar and set him down, and the brat turned on his heel to run off. Alfred slapped him across the back of the head as hard as he could as a parting gift. Teach the kid a lesson now, before he wound up running on the wrong side.

Footsteps pattering down the street.

He stood there, chest heaving as the anger coursed through his veins, and his face was red long after he had been left alone on the street.

Only when he saw the flutter of the curtain, was he able to drag himself from irate immobility, and he looked up to see the corner of the blind pushed aside. Someone was watching him. The old woman. When his eyes settled on the window, the blind closed and the curtain was swiftly drawn again. And for a moment, his knees threatened to give out from beneath him, and it was the most crushing feeling imaginable, to know that she was so _afraid_ of him now.

She was afraid of him.

He would have given anything to go back in time, when she stood there on the step, smiling through her wrinkles, leaning forward and saying to him with that thick accent, 'So, how were your marks today?'

Marks. She'd always said marks. Never grades.

He'd pull out the test, and her face lit up and her brow lifted when she saw the '100'.

'You're so smart! You keep learning, yeah? It's very important.'

A candy in his hand, and he had been shoved off on his way.

All of that was gone. He'd stopped learning, for a while there. She was afraid of him now.

It was this knowledge, and a burning desire to get rid of the image in his head of himself doing the same thing years ago, that he found his footing and hopped down the soaking stairs, darting through the empty streets and back into the massive crowd, not stopping until he had found someone who was willing to give him what he wanted.

A few dollars poorer and a bucket of turpentine later, he went back the way he'd come from, a few dry cloths stuffed in his pockets and probably coming down with a cold from prolonged exposure to cold and sleet.

The people screaming in the distance and the chanting of songs and declarations felt a million miles away on this cold, dark little street, where people stayed inside their houses, content to watch the happenings on the CBS channel.

He was glad the street was empty.

So that no one would see him in a moment of humble vulnerability, as he crept up Mrs. Schulze's steps as quietly as a mouse, set the cloths and can down, popped off the top, and set to work.

As he dipped a cloth into the sharp liquid, he brought it up, and when he started to scrub away the paint, he tried to imagine that he was scrubbing away his own mistakes along with it.

Idiot. Such an idiot.

He brought the cloth up and down, but it took a strong hand and many swipes to get the paint to start dissolving, and when he had only gotten rid of one little swastika, his brow was soaked, and not from the sleet. But, no matter how long it took or how his arms ached, he wouldn't stop. The ball would probably be plunging down before he was done.

He didn't bother to look up and see if he was being watched, and he wasn't going to knock on the door and try to sputter something lame. She was scared of him, and he wasn't going to cause her any more duress.

Just get done, and get out.

The sky lit up in pink and green. Sleet kept falling.

He worked as quietly as he could while still keeping his hands firm, and when he bent down, re-soaking his cloth and wiping off his brow on his sleeve, something caught his eye. A shadow at his side, and when he straightened up, cloth in hand and a little weary, he realized that someone was standing beside of him.

Stillness and silence.

He couldn't help but break into a breathless smile, despite the dreary weather and the shame and the guilt. Suddenly, he was alive with adrenaline.

The pale-eyed German stood at his side, tall and calm and wrapped in a coat that was far too big, and, after a second of silent staring, he rolled up his sleeves, and bent over, taking up a spare cloth from the step and soaking it in the turpentine. Alfred didn't speak, content to keep working and watch from the corner of his eye as the German brought the cloth to the door and began to scrub away.

For a second, he didn't really remember what he was doing, and his hands were really moving automatically.

Cloud nine.

This was more than he'd hoped for. More than he could have asked for. After so much trouble and so much work and so much stress, having this quiet, unusual man walk up to him of his own free-will was just...

He couldn't even think of words.

Once again at a loss, tongue-tied and sinking into ineloquence.

But this time, it didn't matter. The German was not asking him for conversation. It was something more than that. So much more.

They met each others' eyes on occasion, and Alfred was fairly certain that he was smiling in a ridiculous fashion, but there was no way he'd be able to wipe it from his face, so he didn't even try.

They carried on. No words.

They gripped the cloths in their hands, and scrubbed up and down, glancing at each other from time to time, working in silent unison until the paint finally began to dissolve, running down the door in black streams.

It occurred to Alfred, as the German reached down to soak his cloth again, that the expression on his face was endearingly serious. All work. Total concentration. Gentle hands. Like he was restoring the _Mona Lisa_ , instead of scrubbing a door clean.

It was then, maybe, watching him silently work, that Alfred finally understood (not fully, but a little) how much it must have _hurt_ him—all of them!—to be called that word, and to be labeled with that symbol. Why old Mrs. Schulze had burst into tears that day. Why the tall, handsome blond's cool eyes had blazed in anger every time that word had been tossed at him. It hurt. Both their sense of pride in themselves, and their pride in their motherland.

He wouldn't pretend that he truly understood, but he grasped, however distantly, that that word must have cut deeper than any knife.

Damn.

"So, what brings you out here?" Alfred finally managed, his voice strong and sure even though his hands trembled as he hid them in the cloth.

For a moment, he didn't think he'd get an answer, and the way the German's brow was lowered in concentration, he wasn't entirely sure that he'd even been heard at all.

But then a low, deep rumble.

"Just wanted to see the lights."

A cool look was cast his way, and it was clear that the German was content to leave it at that.

Well.

"Well, lucky for me I guess. I'd've been out here all night."

He kept his voice a whisper, so as not to disturb the households.

The German only gave a quick, "Hm."

With two, the work went a lot faster. It was still a ways before midnight when they finally started to finish up.

Looked good. The door was cleaner than it had been before, by the time they got done with it, and when every trace of paint was gone, Alfred took a step back, observing their work with a sharp eye and taking up a dry towel to rub his hands free of the turpentine. No one would have ever known the paint had been there. The guilt of his own trespasses dissipated.

He felt pretty good. Pretty goddamn good.

Finally, after a silence, as bursts of light from the fireworks above lit up the streets, Alfred said, without looking over, "Thanks."

Silence.

A great thunder above as fireworks exploded.

Sparing a glance at his counterpart, Alfred saw that he had finished wiping his hands and had turned his back to the door, staring up at the horizon as the lights changed colors. His hair had come loose in the sleet, falling into his eyes. Alfred took note that, damp and unkempt and smelling like paint thinner, the German wasn't quite as overwhelming and intimidating, especially gazing up at fireworks like a dreamy kid.

"Hey," he said, going out on a limb, "There's still time. Do you wanna go watch the ball drop?"

Still staring upward, arms crossed over his chest and face as calm and stoic as it usually was, the German only answered with another enigmatic, "Hm."

After nothing else came, Alfred shook his head, smiling.

"I'll take that as a 'no'."

Well, time to go home then. He'd probably overstayed his welcome outside this house. He turned around and knelt down, cleaning the last of the turpentine from his hands as he meant to gather up the items and prepare to depart. He was prepared to resume his wanderings alone. Same old.

A quick, light touch on his shoulder came out of nowhere.

The brush was only for a second, and when he looked up, startled, he was caught under those pale eyes and then there was a whisper that barely rose above the sleet battering the sidewalk.

"Ludwig."

Dumbfounded, he could only utter, "H-huh?" and his heart raced in his chest when he realized that the German was _speaking_ to him. Speaking. He rubbed his hands in the cloth long after they were clean, too dumb with adrenaline to move, as still as a rock.

"What?"

A hesitant silence.

"Ludwig," the blond finally repeated, and then he backed away, and his expression belied a certain nervousness, as he tucked his hands behind his back. "My name," he added, at Alfred's look of complete confusion, "Ludwig."

Alfred was frozen for a moment, and then came back to earth with a loud, "Oh!" and pulled himself up to his feet.

And then the realization _really_ hit him, and it was like lightning; he broke into a grin so wide that he had to squint his eyes to accommodate it, and placed his hands on his hips. "Say," he began, "You're really tellin' me your name? I don't believe it!" The excitement was nearly overwhelming, and for a moment, he was proud that he had kept composure as well as he had.

It would have been very easy to stomp his foot in triumph, and laugh to the sky.

Instead, he extended his hand, in what would be the first handshake ever exchanged between them, the first real commiseration, the first willful and completely mutual contact. He was all but bristling with exhilaration. His excitement dulled just a little when the German leaned back automatically, in a perhaps instilled response to get as far away from his hand as possible.

A flinch. He flinched.

Ignoring the ache in his chest, Alfred pressed forward, too close now to back off, adding amicably, "I'm Alfred. It's...great to meet you. Ludwick."

He tried to keep his hand steady as he held it out and waited.

_Oh_! Come on! So close.

No movement, and for a second, his heart started to sink. The German looked frozen. Uncertain. Maybe even a little frightened, staring down at his hand as thought it would bite.

Fireworks burst overhead.

His hand began to lower, a little, in disappointment. Maybe it was still too soon.

But, then again, maybe the New Year would be better for him than he had thought.

After a hesitation that felt like an eternity, the German finally inhaled a great, deep breath, as though he was about to dive into the sea, and then reached out, taking the offered hand in a firm grip, and Alfred's smile returned like the sun.

The best feeling, no doubt about it. The best. That hand within his own.

The German finally found his voice again, and murmured, lowly, "It's Ludwig."

"Eh?"

"Ludwig."

"That's what I said, wasn't it? Ludwick?"

"No, no, _Ludwig_."

"I'm just not hearing the difference."

"Ludwig."

"Ludwick."

"Ludwig!"

"Ludwig?"

The German froze, open-mouthed, and then, almost surprised, nodded his head.

Alfred's heart was pounding so hard in his chest he was afraid he would faint. Hadn't even noticed when the handshake had ended, but already regretted the cold air on his palm again.

"Ludwig," he repeated, mostly to himself, and even as the unusual, soft hiss of a 'g' was strange on his tongue, he considered the possibility that surely he was dreaming.

Too good to be true.

Ludwig. His name was Ludwig.

Ludwig stood there for a second, straight as a board, hands tucked behind his back and shoulders shifting up and down anxiously, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and sped off down the steps, disappearing into the shadows, and Alfred was too stunned and overwhelmed to go after him. He didn't need to. That had been enough. The German—Ludwig!—would not have responded to that anyway.

He had said all he had wanted to, and nothing more. He would talk again when he was ready.

And by god, what a feeling it was that ran through him as he took up the can with shaking hands, too enthralled to really care too much about where he was going next, and he barely realized when he tossed the can and the towels into some dumpster in an alley.

Walking in the clouds.

Dirty streets were no problem.

Because they had met each other. _Really_ met each other, and there had been no hatred in the blond's deep, smooth voice. No animosity. No pain. No _fear_.

He found himself wandering into the main streets before long, sinking back into the shouting and bouncing crowd, and his heart soared the entire night, as he gave in to his adrenaline and happiness, and he merged in with the people beside of him and roared in the New Year as loudly and as energetically as he had every other year.

This time, though, he had a real reason to look forward to it.

Christ almighty, there was nothing like it. Nothing. Not a thing in the world.

And for the very first time in his life, as he mingled and babbled mindlessly away with the crowd pressing against him, there was no voice in the back of his head trying to convince him that Germans were evil, no whispers in his subconscious that fought to reassure him that he had never done anything wrong.

Nothing.

For the first time in his life, he forgot everything his father had ever taught him.


	11. Kettenbrücke-Walzer

**Chapter 11**

**Kettenbrücke-Walzer**

He hadn't ever really been sure whether or not he believed in heaven.

His father had told him all about it, when he had been small. It had seemed comforting then, sitting on his father's lap and burying his face into the comforting smell of his shirt, as his father had explained heaven and hell and what you had to do to get into each one. His mother, of course, had gone to heaven, because she had been a good person, having never wronged anyone in her short life. His grandparents had gone to heaven. His father, when he died, would go to heaven too, because heroes always went to heaven.

Comforting.

At least then.

The older he got, and the more he started really thinking about, heaven seemed less of a comfort and more of an uncertainty.

One of his father's old war buddies had died from a very likely shot liver, when Alfred was fourteen, and he remembered his father sitting there in one of the black-draped chairs before the casket, looking dismal. Afterwards, his father had stood up, gone to the widow, put a hand on her shoulder and said, quietly, 'Jimmy's in heaven now, Jane, so don't cry so much.'

But as he had looked her, Alfred had realized that she wasn't really crying that much at all.

Suddenly it hit him, really hit him, because Alfred remembered that woman, remembered seeing her so often, sporting her black sunglasses that nearly covered her entire face, her scarf tied around her neck, never taking them off so that no one would notice the bruises, and, _god_ , if Jimmy really had gone to heaven, then maybe heaven wasn't somewhere that Alfred would really have wanted to be.

His father had never hit his mother, Francis had assured him of that, but if his father thought that that man had deserved ascending into the clouds, then his declarations of a better place quickly lost their meaning.

After a while, Alfred started to think that, maybe, heaven was just another story that his father had spun, like all the other ones. Glitzy and exciting, yeah, but overblown and exaggerated. Hot air.

It was _nice_ to think that his sweet mother had been rewarded, had been given eternity to make up for her stolen years on earth, it really was. It had made her death a little easier to accept when he was young. It had softened the blow. His father had needed to believe that, had needed to believe such things, because his father was too weak to go on without some kind of reassurance. His father couldn't handle the fact that maybe, just maybe, his wife had just _died_ and that he wouldn't ever see her again, no matter how many years passed, that she wasn't waiting in the sky, that maybe she had just gone out like a match and that was that. You could still smell smoke after it had vanished, but that didn't mean it was still there.

His father believed in heaven because the alternative seemed too dreary and hopeless.

Bleak.

Somehow...

The more and more Alfred thought about it, the more and more he was sure that it was just a story. If heaven and hell and god were all real, then the world wouldn't be so fuckin' crazy, would it? If god were real, then mankind wouldn't be so cruel. The world would make sense. Maybe some people really needed to believe that life was just some test, some right of passage, where their actions would be rewarded and they would be exalted.

His father had said, all the time, that the Allies won the war because god was on their side.

That hadn't ever really made much sense to him, because he remembered old radio broadcasts from the war, where Hitler and Mussolini claimed, so fervently, that god was on _their_ side.

If _that_ god was real, then he was just fuckin' with the entire universe.

And Alfred would rather not believe in something like that.

He went on, after that, and decided that the best thing to do was to live life to the fullest and not worry about what happened after death. If he was wrong and heaven was real, then he would still have been a good person, and would surely be let in. If he was right and there was no such thing, then he would die with no regrets, knowing that he had made every moment worth it.

Alfred hadn't ever really been sure whether or not he believed in heaven, but now, suddenly, it didn't seem to matter so much.

No heaven could ever have made him feel as good as that single word had. No heaven could ever have lived up to the expectations that had been set down here. Let heaven wait, if it was there; he'd take this present, and wouldn't even bother looking back.

Nothing up there in the clouds could ever be worth more than hearing Ludwig's voice so close to his ear. To feel that hand upon his shoulder, a fleeting second of something that _felt_ like heaven, to be sought out voluntarily.

Nothing.

This was heaven. The instant that Ludwig had taken his hand within his own, this time and place had become heaven.

He sat on the stone steps in front of his house, pulling on his still damp boots, and he was so giddy with excitement that it was taking him an extraordinary amount of time to tie the damn things.

Kept slipping up.

When he had woken up that morning, the world had suddenly seemed a little brighter.

Footsteps on the sidewalk didn't even draw his attention, nor did the shadow that fell over him, and he would never have realized that he wasn't alone if someone hadn't spoken.

"Didn't know you were off today."

He glanced up, quickly, but it was only Matthew.

Dressed neatly, as always, he was staring down at Alfred with a strange look, and tucked a hand into his pocket as he gave a halfhearted smile. Hadn't seen Matthew for a while, now. Hadn't really even thought about it. Odd, hearing his voice.

No doubt the statement had been meant to bring Alfred back down to earth a little.

Didn't work.

Alfred gave a snort, and turned his eyes back down to his stubborn boots.

"I'm not," was his airy reply, and Matthew was surely shaking his head.

"Feel like gettin' fired, huh?"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder. "Don't care much."

Truthfully, he didn't. He didn't give a damn if they fired him or not, because he had something else he'd rather be doing right now, and nothing in the world could have distracted him from it.

His name was Ludwig.

"Well," Matthew finally continued, a bit hopefully, "If you're playing hooky, why don't we go downtown for a while? It's been a long time since we've done something together."

He didn't even stop to think about it, quickly saying, "Sorry. Got somethin' to do."

He could feel Matthew's eyes upon him.

Together. Together was a notion that had been consuming his brain for a while now alright, but, unfortunately, the only 'together' that he was really interested in at the moment was the 'together' that included Ludwig.

No one else.

A long, rather stiff hesitation, and then Matthew spoke again.

"Goin' out there again, Alfred?"

Dreamy and still feeling rather dazed, Alfred finally laced up his boots and drawled, "Yup."

A short silence above him, and Matthew gave a little sigh. "Well. I thought instead... Ah, never mind. You know. Be careful, I guess. Have fun."

"Sure," he replied, still far up in the atmosphere, and he hardly noticed that Matthew lingered a little, and then finally turned and wandered off.

By the time he hauled himself up off the stone steps and looked up, Matthew was long gone.

He didn't dwell on it much.

Matthew didn't need him around every day. Ludwig did, perhaps.

All the same, the word 'fun' hadn't exactly been enthusiastic as it had dropped from Matthew's lips. More like melancholy, maybe exasperation. Kinda sad. Like he had lost something.

In a way, Alfred supposed, he had.

Matthew probably hadn't expected it to go this far, and he certainly hadn't expected Alfred to take to the German so much that he would end up being replaced.

Replaced.

...was that was he was doing?

True, ever since his interest in the German had grown, he had been seeing less and less of Matthew. Sought him out less and less. Thought about him less and less, too, it seemed. That hadn't been his intention. Never had been. This whole thing had just snuck up on him, so much faster than he had thought it would, and maybe he had gotten swept up in it so quickly that he had forgotten Matthew was still out in the surf, too.

It could have just been a passing distraction; maybe once he and Ludwig were settled more into their friendship, he could turn his eyes back and focus his attention between the both of them. But then, maybe that was just how it all worked. Maybe when a new friendship came along, sometimes you just kind of forgot about the ones you had had before. New relationships often meant the deterioration of old ones, didn't they?

He didn't want that. He wanted Ludwig, hell yeah he did, more than anything, but he didn't want to lose Matthew in the process. Well. Matthew was patient. Matthew understood how important this was to him. Matthew could just wait a little longer. It had been Matthew who had prodded him onward, so Matthew could do the responsible thing and wait.

He couldn't help but wonder, though, if Matthew was getting jealous.

The old man sure as hell was.

As he bounded off, too energetic to walk steady, he could feel eyes on his back, and knew his father was watching him from the window. It should have worried him, but he was confident enough in himself to think that he could call off the old man if it had really come down to it. In his state now, he probably couldn't even fight anymore. Alfred was likely the stronger one. So he didn't spend time fretting too much. He kept his father in the back of his mind now, because the front of it was occupied completely by the German. The German, who had come to him, who had spoken to him.

Ludwig.

Heaven.

No amount of cold or sleet or stagnant puddles could ruin his enthusiasm, and he tromped through the messy streets in this already fantastic new year, lunging into the crowds and pushing his way towards that unseen beacon that lured him. He stepped into _their_ side of town now as easily as if it were his own. He had been welcomed here by one of them, after all, so he could come here now. As far as he was concerned.

Most of them avoided him, but that didn't bother him anymore, because when he went back onto that old street, he found there exactly what he had wanted.

Too easily.

Maybe Ludwig had been waiting for him.

Hoping, too.

Ludwig was easy to see against the dreary backdrop, so pristine and bright, despite the shadows under his eyes, and he didn't really seem to be _doing_ anything when Alfred spotted him; looking rather lost, he seemed to be wandering from one end of the block to the other, as if he had left something behind and couldn't seem to find it.

Alfred liked to think (and maybe he was right) that Ludwig was just exploring the same few feet of sidewalk so that Alfred wouldn't have to look too hard to find him. And he was actually _sure_ , as he drew ever closer and Ludwig just walked in circles, that that was exactly what he was doing.

He couldn't ever really understand the things he felt in that moment, when his foot landed heavily on the street and Ludwig looked up, bright eyes catching fire in the sun, and their gazes locked. As if Ludwig somehow knew, as much as he did, when they were drawing nearer each other. As if Ludwig sensed him somehow, or maybe Ludwig knew the weight of his footsteps or the particular sheen of his jacket. Maybe Ludwig recognized the way the light hit his hair, or maybe he could pick out the way he smelled from the rest of the bustling crowd.

As Alfred knew well the sight of Ludwig, in the midst of hundreds of others, Ludwig seemed to be perfectly capable of the same feat.

Could anyone have understood such a thing except for them?

The confused circling suddenly stopped, and Ludwig fell still where he stood.

Alfred was momentarily so dazed by the sight of him that he didn't realize he was still standing in the gutter, and he barely jumped out of the way as an angry cab came straight at him. Alfred yelped at the dirty water that splashed onto his back, and he whirled around to shriek obscenities at the car that had nearly taken him out.

People were so fuckin' impatient around here!

Ludwig straightened up, put his hands in his pockets, and just shook his head. Probably thinking, 'It had to be _this_ guy, huh?'

Trying to gather up his dignity, Alfred hopped onto the sidewalk, heart racing, and just jerked a thumb back at the long-gone cab. "Man!" he said, in an effort to regain a little composure, "Jerks, I tell ya!"

Ludwig, quiet as he was, only turned to the side, and started walking.

Alfred assumed it was an invitation to settle in side by side, and did just that.

Maybe the damn car _had_ hit him, because this sure felt like a dream. A damn good one. He was painfully aware that his backside was soaked with gutter-water, but hey—Ludwig didn't seem to care, so neither did he.

He couldn't seem to get enough of saying that name.

Ludwig.

Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig. Coulda said it all day long.

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and promptly shut it again. Blabbering away was usually his go to, but this time...

Somehow, he was content enough just to walk at Ludwig's side, and enjoy the company.

In lieu of speaking, he decided to observe.

The first thing that struck him was that Ludwig looked better. Not good, not really, but better. Actually, he looked a hell of a lot better than he had mere weeks ago, and it would have been hard for someone who didn't know him to realize that he had nearly been dead not so long ago. He was still pale and still rather heavy-eyed, but that could have easily been mistaken for a cold or a little insomnia. No one would have guessed.

That made Alfred _happy_.

An odd feeling as of late.

Even Ludwig's hair seemed brighter, if at all possible, like it had perked up as much as the rest of him. The garments he wore now seemed to fit a little better. Not so loose. Ludwig's clothes were a little neater than they had been, too, as if he had upped the quality a little of the fabric that he wore, and the scent was different as well. A little spicy. Cologne? Ludwig hadn't ever worn it before. Maybe it was embedded in the clothing, from days long gone when Ludwig had actually given a damn.

A thought struck him then that made his smile fall a little.

Ludwig had started wearing good clothes, perhaps, because no one was pummeling him into the dirt anymore. Those clothes must have been in his closet for years.

That hurt.

Glancing over at his silent counterpart, Alfred finally dared himself to speak, and said, simply, "You look good."

Ludwig didn't respond or look over, but Alfred could see, in the way he lifted his chin a little, that the compliment was accepted and appreciated. It felt as good for him to say it as it must have been for Ludwig to hear it.

That was all they spoke that day.

He still went home and rested his hands behind his head as he smiled stupidly at the ceiling all night long.

A few days and one barely salvaged occupation later, he set out again.

The same routine.

Ludwig was wandering in circles in that same spot, and when he saw Alfred, something swirled in his eyes, whether he meant it to or not. Relief, maybe, or contentment. Whatever it was, Alfred hardly cared; as long as Ludwig kept waiting for him.

As before, they walked.

And the next time, too.

Each time, Alfred spoke a little more, and every so often, Ludwig would look over at him and utter a word here and there. Some days, they found themselves walking together, side by side in the street, and yet neither one of them could really seem to remember exactly how they had come across each other or why.

Each time, Ludwig spoke up a little more.

In their third week of this ritual, Ludwig finally took a deep breath, and spoke before Alfred did.

Heaven was the only word for it.

They talked, now. A little. Not as easily as friends should have, but they held small conversations, and Alfred was steadily prying more information out of Ludwig with every encounter. Nothing grand. Just a few details. What kind of things he enjoyed, shows and music and the like. How old he was. His birthday. Little things. They still meant the world, somehow.

Ludwig looked so _lonely_ ; it had to have felt good, to say a little of this aloud and feel connected to somebody and get back into the world.

Matthew didn't even cross Alfred's mind, in those moments when he spoke to Ludwig.

He grew a little bolder each time.

Once, Alfred asked, "How come you left Germany, if ya don't mind me askin'?"

From the look Ludwig had sent him then, it was obvious that he _did_ mind, and when he said, rather snippily, "Because I felt like it," it was clear that he had no intention of answering _that_ question.

A little disappointed, Alfred had only turned his eyes down, and pursed his lips.

It was still so difficult to determine what was and wasn't out of bounds for Ludwig, what subjects could be approached and which were forbidden, where the lines in the sand were drawn and how flexible the borders were. Trial and error was all he could do, and hell, he didn't mind. As long as Ludwig still walked with him, and as long as he knew that Ludwig was doing alright.

Sometimes, though...

He kinda wished that he had just never opened his mouth in the first place.

"So," he finally asked, one rainy day, "You got any family here? I mean, don't you have any brothers or sisters or anything this side?"

He didn't ask about a father—he knew that answer already.

Ludwig hesitated a little, keeping pace with him in the slick streets, and cast him a weary glance, but eventually, he just shook his head.

"I'm alone here."

Alfred could sense his unease, but still he pressed anyway.

How sad—no one to go to. No one attached to him. Who could live like that?

"Well, what about back in Germany? No one there, either? You didn't have any family at all?"

An odd pause, as Ludwig found the ground suddenly very interesting, and after a while, he shrugged a shoulder, and finally muttered, "A brother."

Alfred couldn't help but smile. Brother, huh? Ludwig, stern, patient Ludwig, a brother. Cute.

The deep timbre of Ludwig's voice was scarcely audible over the rain, and Alfred should have taken that as a hint to drop the subject and back off before he went too far. But, like always, he _pressed_ , and tried his luck. Couldn't help it. Oh, man, the sound of Ludwig's voice was still so entrancing. He'd do anything he could to make Ludwig speak more, if only to hear the sound of his voice. No one else could ever have emulated that accent, met that same rumbling pitch, pronounced words exactly as he could. No one.

"Younger?" he asked, stubbornly. "You ever see him? Don't you talk to him anymore?"

He should've shut his mouth earlier, but it just kept on a runnin'. A curse of his.

Ludwig's look turned a little dark.

"Older." Another hesitation, and then Ludwig scoffed. "He's dead, so it doesn't matter."

Oh—

"Oh, oh shit. I'm...sorry. I'm really sorry."

Quit while you're ahead, Alfred, that was what Matthew always told him. He never fuckin' listened. Never. Always put his foot in his mouth.

Ludwig glanced over, and then away again, muttering, "You didn't know."

Shit.

Reaching up to scratch at his wet hair, Alfred hesitated, knowing that it was wrong to ask, and yet still, _still_ , he just couldn't really resist.

"What hap— Well, I mean, if you don't mind me asking, that is... How?"

Stupid. So stupid.

Luckily, Ludwig didn't punch him in the nose or call him an insensitive bastard, and actually, somehow, maybe he looked a little...

"He was a soldier. He went into Russia. Got caught. He never came back."

...relieved.

As if, maybe, he had been dying to talk to somebody about it, but hadn't ever been brave enough to put it out there. Relieved that somebody had asked. Relieved that somebody gave a damn. Relieved that somebody _wanted_ to know.

"Sorry," Alfred said again, but Ludwig was hardly listening to him anymore.

In his own little world, now. Without prompting, Ludwig added, heavily, "My father used to pretend that he was still alive, you know? Since...they never found him. My mother never— She never pretended. She knew. She said she could feel it, that he was dead."

He should never have asked. Seeing Ludwig look so _sad_...

He hadn't wanted that.

"She'd know," Ludwig whispered, as Alfred glanced over halfheartedly. "He was her real son, so she'd know, right? He never come back. If he weren't dead, he would've come back. I waited for him. I made sure to wait before I left, just in case."

A long, heavy silence, save for the pounding rain, and from the look on Ludwig's face, maybe he had said so much simply _because_ it was raining. Made it harder to see. His bangs had fallen into his eyes now, anyway, so despair was a lot easier to hide.

Finally, Alfred asked, "What was his name?"

For all it mattered.

Ludwig nearly smiled, for a second there, he was sure of it, as if the name itself was something that had at one point brought so much happiness that he couldn't do anything but.

"Gilbert."

"Oh."

No more talk.

He was stupid.

Oh, he longed to ask more. To know more. To understand Ludwig's dreary nature. To ask about his home, his mother, what had _happened_ out there, what he had seen. He didn't.

After that, they never spoke about family again, and Alfred was glad, in a way. Couldn't stand seein' Ludwig look like that.

The next time they met, though, Ludwig looked just as good as he had the last time. No relapse of depression because of Alfred's thoughtless questions. Maybe talking about such things did more good than harm. He made a note to himself to slowly build up to each and every thing he wanted to know, and maybe, one day, Ludwig would actually tell him the whole story.

The truth.

If ever Ludwig trusted him so one day, then he was certain that he could go the rest of his life without feeling that he had missed out on anything. That would have been the day he could have truly liked himself.

In the meantime, they walked.

Eventually, the aimless walks they took started to have a more tangible destination, and when Alfred looked up one afternoon, he realized they were walking past Ludwig's house.

Getting closer and closer.

Each time, he got closer. It took a while for Ludwig to actually lead him up onto his doorstep, and when they sat down together that first time on the stoop and just stared out at the streets together, Alfred was pretty sure that he knew at last was happiness truly felt like. He'd sat on a hundred stoops like this, sometimes with someone at his side, sometimes alone, but it hadn't ever felt like this.

Exhilaration.

He wondered if this was what his mother had felt, so many years ago, when she had tried on her dress for the first time. Feeling like something had just begun, that life was really starting for the first time, that, no matter what had happened before, from now on everything would be perfect. That the former world was melting away for something better.

Because that was what _he_ felt like.

She had twirled in front of the mirror, no doubt, beaming away, and when he walked through the door, he went into the bedroom and looked into his mirror. What he saw there, for the first time, really made him smile.

He could only hope that Ludwig had the same sensation every time he walked into his room.

They found themselves on those same steps now every time they walked, and sometimes Alfred dreaded _seeing_ those steps, because he knew it meant their journey had ended and that it wouldn't be long before the visit was over and he would have to go home.

The sense of what was home and what was not was steadily shifting. Before long, he started thinking to himself, 'I gotta go back to the house.'

The house; not home.

He kept an eye out for his father during these walks, just in case, but the old man never came after them. Maybe seeing Alfred there, really seeing him, would've broken his heart. Well. As long as he stayed away and left Ludwig alone.

Sometimes, when they sat, Alfred could see Ludwig glancing at him, and maybe Ludwig had as many things he wanted to ask as Alfred did, but just couldn't find the words for. Alfred would have answered anything he wanted, anything at all, if he would have just asked.

He never did.

Once, though, Ludwig did catch his eye, and ask, carefully, "Are your friends still mad at you?"

Alfred's answer was swift, and final.

"No friends of mine."

Ludwig seemed satisfied.

People eyed them, oddly, when they sat there, but neither one of them really noticed.

Alfred stood frequently on Ludwig's doorstep these days, but he was never invited inside, and he never asked. Hadn't gone that far yet, not yet. He wasn't brave enough, and if he asked before Ludwig offered, he might have come off as too bold and presumptuous. He _was_ bold and presumptuous, but Ludwig might not have appreciated that just yet. Ludwig must have known that he wanted in, but if he did, then he didn't care. Alfred like to think that he was saving that invite for something special, or for when Alfred finally did something to really prove himself.

Time.

Everything got better in time. In time, Ludwig would trust him more. He grew more confident with each encounter. He wanted more. Each time, no matter what Ludwig offered, he found that he only wanted more. So much of his time was spent in the streets now that he hardly even remembered what it was like just to sit at home and watch the television.

February was well on the way.

He noticed, albeit reluctantly, that his father was losing a little weight. Looked a little ill. Maybe that was why he didn't stay home, on some level, to not have to see him getting worse. Since it was his fault. His fault, but not Ludwig's.

One morning, Alfred woke up, having had a wonderful idea the night before, and even though it was cloudy and snowing outside, he felt like he was in the middle of summer.

An idea.

What could it hurt? Things had improved enough between them now, hadn't it? Time to push forward a little.

He dressed, pulled on his boots, and stepped into the road.

He heard Matthew's voice from a distance, calling after him as he jogged down the street.

"Hey, Alfred—!"

Too late.

He was already crossing the road and going around the corner. Matthew always came around too late, it seemed, after Alfred had already gotten something into his head and was ready to act upon it. Matthew just needed to be patient with him.

It didn't take too long before Alfred found himself, yet again, in front of Francis' house.

He was so excited this time that he banged on the door in a manner that was almost urgent. Too thrilled to control himself, as he often was.

Francis opened the door in a second, eyes alarmed and wide, as if thinking the cops were coming for him or something. Knowing Francis, one day a spurned woman probably _would_ send the fuzz after him. Right to worry, perhaps.

Upon seeing Alfred, Francis sent him a gentle glare of agitation, and lowered his shoulders.

"What's up? You scared me, you know."

"Sorry," was his carefree response, and he couldn't keep himself from bristling with adrenaline. "Just wanted to see you. You up for a walk? I thought we could go somewhere."

Francis would never say no. Not to him.

"Well—alright. Sure, why not? Let's go for a walk."

Grabbing his coat and smoothing his hair, Francis came into the doorframe, and gave Alfred a smile.

He expected to start walking immediately, impatient as he was, but Francis stood still for a second, eyes glued to Alfred all of a sudden. Francis always stared at him when they were together, always, but this time he seemed to be looking Alfred up and down more than usual, his eyes focused and brow low in concentration.

Alfred fidgeted a little, and finally asked, "What? Do I got something on my face?"

Francis smiled, in a way that was so knowing it made Alfred a little uneasy, and he shook his head.

"No. You cleaned your boots."

"Huh?"

He looked down, to his scrubbed boots, and then back up.

"So what?"

Francis just smiled. "You never clean your boots. You shined up your glasses, too, didn't'cha?"

"Well—"

He reached up, awkwardly, and shoved his glasses up his nose.

"They were gettin' dirty."

Francis reached out, and pinched a fold of fabric above his chest.

"Ironed your shirt, too, huh?"

Feeling a bit defensive, Alfred tugged himself back, and said, again, "So what? I know how to work an iron, believe it or not. I just... I don't know, I just felt like ironing it. What's the big deal?"

Francis broke into a wide smile, and waved off his snippy tone.

"No big deal. Just, you look good, is all. Haven't ever seen you worry about what you looked like."

Before he could think of something smart to say, Francis had grabbed him around the shoulder and dragged him down the steps.

"Well! Take me where you will, Alfred."

For a second there, a little uneasy, Alfred had half a mind to shove Francis back in his house and forget the whole thing.

Pfft—he'd always cared about what he looked like. Sort of. Kind of.

"Has that girl still been coming around?" Francis asked, rather slyly, and Alfred actually had to think about it before he answered, as they walked along.

Had she? Hell, he'd been so far gone lately that Audrey Hepburn coulda showed up at his doorstep and he woulda just walked on by her without thought. If Alice had come by, then he couldn't remember.

"No. Not really."

Francis' smile turned into a leer.

"You been going out a lot lately?"

"I guess."

"Seein' somebody?"

Well. Yeah.

"I guess."

...but, oh, wait, not like _that_. Not like Francis thought. He understood suddenly, that Francis was observing his neater than usual appearance, and assumed he had found a girl to chase after. But that wasn't—he'd been goin' after Ludwig, yeah, but—

Face red and feeling incredibly mortified for some reason, he blurted out, "Hey, not— I haven't been _seein'_ anybody, if _that's_ what you mean!"

His mortification increased tenfold when he realized that Francis in absolutely no way believed him.

That fuckin' grin.

"Sure, Alfred," was all he said.

Alfred hung his head, knowing that his face was red as hell, and he couldn't say why he was so embarrassed. All he had had to say was, 'I've been hanging out with a friend.' That was all.

He had choked, under Francis' assumptions.

Although he hadn't choked when Francis asked if Alice was still coming around with the same tone.

...ah, hell.

So he had tidied himself up a little. So what? Could you only do that on a date, or what? Couldn't he clean his boots and shine his glasses and iron his shirts a little just because Ludwig was so spotless and neat that it felt a little odd to walk at his side, so messy? Ludwig glanced at his boots, sometimes, and Alfred had suddenly realized how dirty they were.

Maybe that was why Ludwig hadn't invited him inside yet.

Maybe.

He hadn't gone to extremes, anyway, not in the least. He hadn't gotten a haircut or bought expensive clothes. He hadn't traded in his old jacket for a newer one. He hadn't started dousing himself in aftershave and cologne any more than he always had before. He had started putting a bit on wrists instead of just spraying it on his clothes, but that was hardly noticeable.

In fact, he was fairly certain that Francis was the only one who would ever notice these small things, the only one who would actually realize that Alfred had smoothed a few rough edges.

Good damn thing he hadn't actually bothered to fix his hair. Francis woulda tried to beat it out of him.

They walked, and with every step, Alfred wondered more and more if maybe this was a good idea after all. Francis' teasing had dampened not only his mood, but his confidence a little.

Francis assumed...

When it became more obvious where they were going, Francis lifted up his head a little, and became considerably less playful and considerably more alert.

"So," Francis asked, suddenly, "Where are we goin'?"

Alfred, jittery with excitement that wasn't quite so pleasant anymore, said, simply, "I just wanted to check out some stores."

He knew that Francis was eyeballing him, and, sure enough, he asked, "Since when do you go shopping all the way out here?"

An honest answer would have been, 'Since Ludwig.'

Instead, he replied, "There's this shop around here that had some great Christmas stuff. You like gingerbread, right? I love gingerbread."

He didn't, actually, but he sure had loved watchin' Ludwig try to make a house out of it.

There was a pause, and then Francis gave a laugh.

It might have been a little stiff.

"Well! I guess it's great to try new things," Francis said, and Alfred just stayed silent, and kept his lookout.

Second thoughts. Doubt. Things he hated.

Had Ludwig even noticed, that last time, that Alfred's boots no longer had the rainbow sheen of motor oil? Who could tell, with Ludwig?

It didn't take long for Alfred to spot Ludwig, and it took little less for Ludwig to spot him, but this time, when Ludwig's eyes locked onto his own, the agitation was obvious. Before they crossed the street, Ludwig had straightened up stiff as a board, and Alfred could see that he was turning his head this way and that, already plotting an escape.

Ludwig had never expected Alfred to bring anyone along. Maybe this was a betrayal, somehow, of the frail faith that Ludwig had put in him.

Francis wasn't a bad guy—Ludwig would see it, surely. If this hurdle could be passed, if Ludwig could see that so many people weren't bad...

Seeing that Ludwig was starting to back away, Alfred quickened his pace, and reached the sidewalk before Ludwig could bolt. Stuck, now. Ludwig was caught towards the far end of the sidewalk, where he had slowly edged, and when Alfred smiled at him, Ludwig's shoulders fell in defeat, and he knew he had no choice.

He stood there, shiftily, and Alfred came closer.

When they were standing in front of Ludwig, Alfred came forward, hands in his pockets, and tried to reassure the fidgeting Ludwig by saying, as easily as he could, "Hey, hope you don't mind. I just wanted you to meet my uncle." Ludwig's eyes could have very likely set him on fire, then, but he was too polite for his own good, and when Alfred said, loudly, "This is Francis," Ludwig took an automatic step forward, and held out his hand.

Francis had been quiet the whole time, sure, but when Alfred turned around, expecting to see him clasping Ludwig's hand and offering words of greeting, he was surprised.

Silence.

Francis stood still, as if frozen in place, and was staring at Ludwig from where he had settled. His face was very nearly indescribable. Alfred had never seen him look like that. He could only imagine that it was the look of a man who was hearing that his parents had died all over again, which was not _fair_ , in any sense. But Alfred couldn't even be angry, just seeing that odd expression on his uncle's face. Mouth half-open, brow low and eyes a bit wide, the crease of uncertainty visible on his forehead.

Francis looked so _stuck_.

Alfred was painfully aware of Ludwig's hand, held out there in a moment of what _had_ to have been vulnerability. Putting his hand out for someone he didn't know and didn't trust, just because Alfred had put him in that position, and for some unholy reason, Ludwig had _trusted_ Alfred enough to put himself out there.

Francis had never let Alfred down before.

But, oh god, did he ever now. He didn't take Ludwig's hand.

Alfred had never been so embarrassed.

Slowly, carefully, Ludwig withdrew his hand, tucked it in his pocket, and took a step back. His face was completely blank, and that was enough to let Alfred know that he was, on some level, hurt. As always, he gave away nothing, and removed his eyes from the immobile Francis.

Alfred just watched them, not really knowing what to do.

What _could_ he do? Nothing.

Finally, Ludwig cast him a quick glance, acknowledged him with a nod, and said, "I'm late."

For what?

Before Alfred could protest, Ludwig turned on his heel, stepped into the crowd, and was gone.

And it was one of the biggest disappointments of his life.

Crushed.

Immediately, Francis turned to him, his look now one of mortification, and he said, beseechingly, "Alfred, I'm so sorry. That was so rude of me. I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it," he grumbled back, as he watched the crowd with a heavy heart, and then he sighed.

Well, so much for that. What a bust.

"I'm..."

Francis looked so _sad_.

Alfred didn't have it in him to be angry. Francis had choked, too.

"I'm sorry. That won't happen again."

Disheartened, and more than a little upset, Alfred shook his head.

"You're right. It won't."

Ludwig would not let it.

A step backwards.

* * *

He didn't see Ludwig for a long time after that.

It hurt, to think that the progress he had made had been set back by one simple, unintentional gesture. Francis felt horrible about, he knew he did, but it didn't change the fact that he had disenchanted Alfred with his immobility. He had thought better of his uncle. Maybe it wasn't Francis' fault, maybe it had been instilled in Francis the same way it had been instilled in him, but it didn't make Alfred any less disappointed.

Days and days and days. They felt like months. Miserable months.

He searched, every day, and found nothing.

Ludwig didn't wait for him.

He couldn't even remember the last time he had felt so bad. Not since that window.

He searched.

Before he ran into Ludwig, however, he ran into that girl that had been on his arm once.

Close enough.

He would have snatched anyone then that he had ever seen with Ludwig, even the crazy one that lived with him. Anyone, _anything_ , to make things the way they had been before he had let Ludwig down.

He didn't know her name, so when he saw her walking down the street, bouncing on her heels and looking so goddamn cheerful that it was almost shameful, Alfred had burst into a sprint after her, crying, ridiculously, "Hey! Hey, you! Girl! Hey, wait a sec!"

There was no way for her to know who he was talking to, not with so many people around, and the only reason she looked back was just to see who the weirdo was that was screaming in the streets.

Their eyes met, for a second, and she seemed to recognize him as he had her.

Relief.

She fell still, and waited for him.

"Hey," he called, as he drew nearer and slowed his pace, "Hey, you remember me? I'm—I don't think you ever got my name, but I'm Alfred. I'm a friend of Ludwig's. You remember me?"

Seemingly mesmerized by him, the girl just nodded her head, clenching her bag to her chest, and stared at him quietly.

For a moment, Alfred felt stupid, because he didn't really know what to say.

What was he going to say?

Searching for words and finding nothing particularly brilliant, he just said, clumsily, "Say, uh, how's he doin'? I haven't seen him out for a while, and I just... I wanted to make sure he was okay. Have you seen him?"

There was a short silence, as her eyes looked him up and down, as though judging his sincerity, and he prayed that she wasn't going to obey Ludwig's previous order not to talk to him.

Maybe he looked a little worried, after all, because she finally dropped her shoulders a little, and gave a bright smile.

"Well, I haven't seen him for a few days, but I'll go check on him, if you want me to. Would you like that?"

"Yes!" he cried, immediately, and could feel the smile on his own face. "Yes, please do! Go over, and check on him, and tell him—tell him that I... I really would like to see him. Again. You know. Soon. ...maybe."

He must have sounded like a fuckin' idiot, but she smiled all the wider anyway, and she waited patiently for him to try and finish what he wanted to say.

What did he _want_ to say?

An honest statement probably would have been more like, 'Please tell him that I want to see him again, because oh, damn, I _miss_ him when he's not around for some reason and he's the only thing that makes me wanna get up outta bed in the morning and I've even been dreamin' about the bastard.'

But that might have been a little creepy, and more than a little desperate, so he finally summed up with a lame, "Tell him that I just, I worry about him, you know? If he doesn't want to, that's fine, but I'd like to meet up sometime."

Oh, god.

He couldn't have been any more awkward if he had actually tried.

She probably thought he was some crazy stalker. If she did, then she didn't say anything in the affirmative, and just gave that same smile.

"I'll tell him. Promise. Maybe I'll try to bring him out some more."

Alfred smiled, then, too.

"Thanks."

She turned and walked off, glancing at him over her shoulder as she went, and before she was gone, he could see her gleaming smile. He could only pray that she would do as he said, and at least say kind words about him to Ludwig.

He went home, after, and this time it wasn't Matthew that was lurking around the corner, waiting to get a hold of him. Francis was leaning against the steps of his house, and Alfred suspected he'd been waiting there for a while.

Guilty, no doubt.

Alfred stopped in front of him, and stood still long enough to let him say whatever he wanted to.

He looked kinda sick. Nervous.

Francis finally gave a rather weak smile, which quickly fell, and then he ran a hand through his hair, asking, "So... How's it been going?"

Not his fault.

Still, Alfred's voice came out a little sharper than he wanted it to, as he responded, "Could be better."

Francis shifted a little.

"How's your dad?"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder. Didn't care.

There was a silence that wasn't quite awkward, but maybe a little uncomfortable.

The wind was blowing like crazy.

"So," Francis finally began, hopefully, "I was... I was thinking that, you know. You asked if—if I'd mind havin' him over for dinner. Well. I wanted to tell you that, if you ever want to bring him over, I'm alright with that, Alfred, I am. I feel... Oh, man, I feel terrible, I really do."

Just like that, Francis slumped, and Alfred could see that he really was _sorry_. Probably not because he had had some great revelation about Germans and brotherhood and all that whatnot, but because he knew that Alfred's feelings had been hurt by his thoughtlessness. Still...

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, in a gentler voice, and Francis tried to smile.

"If you see him, tell him that _I'd_ like to have him over."

"Sure."

He wouldn't, because Ludwig would not accept.

He appreciated the effort all the same. It was proof that, no matter what their differences, Francis would always love him, even if they sometimes disagreed. They didn't have to see eye to eye with everything, but that didn't mean that they still couldn't love each other.

Francis smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder. Then he wandered off, and Alfred went inside.

His old man had been at the window, probably for a while now, no doubt trying to figure out what Francis had been doing out there. It struck Alfred, as he passed, that his father looked a little disappointed. Almost as if he had been hoping Alfred would bring Francis inside. Since when? His father had never wanted Francis around before. Must be gettin' lonely. Probably missed his wife, now that Alfred was gone so much. That was unpleasant to think about much, so he tried not to. He went into his room, ignoring his father's whisper of, "You coulda brought him in for dinner."

Sad.

It was so much easier just to think about Ludwig.

Kinda hard, though, when he wouldn't show Alfred his face.

A week.

It was in those days, maybe, that he realized how _lost_ he felt when Ludwig wasn't around. He had put so much of himself into this whole thing that it felt like the world was being sucked into a great black hole when he was alone. When Ludwig wasn't there.

Ludwig was the only person on earth who might have really _needed_ him.

Nothing could have ever filled that void.

He waited, as patiently as was possible for him, but when yet another week passed after his encounter with the girl and Ludwig still didn't show, he started to get anxious. Irritable. Matthew actually came up to his door and knocked one day, and when Alfred had opened it quickly, thinking for some ridiculous reason that it was Ludwig, he had been so disappointed to see Matthew standing there that he had promptly said, 'I'm busy, Matt. Come back later.'

Matthew's face had fallen as he had shut the door.

Not fair to take it out on poor Matthew, but he felt so foul all the time. His moods had been tied to Ludwig as much as anything else lately, it seemed. When Ludwig was gone, so was that happiness.

Agitation. Emptiness.

Ludwig still didn't come out, so Alfred finally decided to go to him. Couldn't take it anymore. He had to make sure Ludwig knew that Alfred wasn't going to let one little setback bring down this castle he was building.

Not that easily.

He didn't remember exactly going out that day, and he couldn't really remember leading his feet towards that house, and yet somehow he wound up there all the same, standing on Ludwig's doorstep and feeling more like he was standing before some door to a terrifying world that had never been seen.

He hardly remembered raising his fist.

He knocked. He waited.

And he could feel his heart beating so loudly that it rivaled the sound of his fist on the door.

Silence.

He could hear shuffling within, and the lifting of a curtain. Low voices.

He might have cried, if Ludwig hadn't opened the door.

But Ludwig did. Mostly. He didn't pull it open all the way, just enough to make himself visible behind the threshold, and when he saw Alfred standing there, he just lifted a brow, and stood still.

Seeing him...

No words.

Even from behind a door, there was nothing quite like Ludwig.

Alfred felt a little stupid, but hid it well.

After a short silence, he said, weakly, "Hi."

Ludwig just stared at him.

"How you been? Alright?"

Ludwig didn't answer, but Alfred could see by his appearance and by the odd look on his face that he was doing just fine, indeed. Just fine. The clothes fit better still. He looked a little better every time that Alfred saw him. That was something he could be grateful for.

That look, though. That was nothing he could place. As if Ludwig was trying very hard to keep a straight face, although for what reason Alfred didn't even dare to hazard a guess.

Still mad, maybe, and resisting the urge to slap him again.

"Listen," he tried again, "I don't know if—well, I told that girl to tell you that I was lookin' for you, but I don't know if she has yet. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I haven't seen you in a while."

He wanted to say, 'I miss you,' but pride and embarrassment kept his tongue.

Something twitched on Ludwig's face.

Honestly, he didn't know now where he stood with Ludwig. He couldn't tell if the ice was sturdy beneath his feet or if it had already cracked. He just wanted to get it over with, and say it. He had been thinking it for so long, so long, and by god, maybe it was just time. Get it over with.

Ah, hell. Why not? He had done so much, risked so much, so why freeze now? Why stop?

Francis' mistake did not stop the world.

Not Francis'—his mistake. He had put both Francis and Ludwig into a position neither of them had wanted to be in.

With a deep breath, he shook his head, and gave a short laugh. Ludwig looked at him with a lifted brow, calm and patient as always, and waited for him to speak.

He did.

"Well! I was afraid to ask before, but fuck it! I'll just say it—I miss you. You wanna hang out and get drunk sometime? Can I—well, I mean, could I invite you over...sometime? Maybe?"

Ludwig's high brow fell, and for a moment, he almost crinkled his nose.

Alfred's heart hammered, and the confidence turned into anxiety, and a little hurt.

Ludwig thought he was stupid. He knew it. He knew _that_ look. He'd seen it many times. And Ludwig said as much then, by tilting his head and uttering, slowly, "You're dumb, you know? You're really dumb."

His breath caught in his throat, and for a horrible, freezing moment, Alfred felt like he coulda burst into tears.

Oh—not that. Anything but that. He couldn't handle rejection.

A long silence, as he swallowed to gather himself, feeling horrified and mortified and _hurt_ , and then Ludwig lifted up his chin, and started to close the door. As his fingers gripped the handle, Ludwig cast him one last, cool look, and then he spoke up again.

"You're dumber than I thought. If we're 'hanging out' anywhere, then it's going to be _here_. What were you thinking? Dumb!"

Ludwig's eyes met his own, right as the door closed, and the coolness had warmed a little.

Then the door shut.

Spring came alive right in the middle of winter, and the sun had suddenly shone itself.

Alfred did cry then, just a little, as he started on his way back to the house.

Happiness.

Couldn't even remember what it felt like, being so goddamn happy that he could cry.

What had that girl said to Ludwig? What had her words been, to make Ludwig finally speak to him as a friend might? To tease, even, as a normal man would have? She had cast him a good light, that was for sure. Oh, god, whatever she had said, she was a godsend. If he saw her again, he'd pick her up and squeeze her as hard as he could.

Heaven was here on earth.

He found it quite easily on Ludwig's doorstep.

Dumb. Yeah, he was dumb alright. Thinking about it, it occurred to him that maybe he was dumb for Ludwig. Ludwig seemed to make him trip all over the place without even trying. When had that happened, anyway? The urge to claim Ludwig as a friend had turned into an obsession. Being able to truly call Ludwig 'friend' was something he suddenly desired more than anything he had ever wanted before.

In all honestly, he couldn't exactly explain why.

Ludwig had become an obsession.

There wasn't a single thing about him that Alfred found unpleasant, not a thing, and there was no one else on the face of this miserable planet that he could say that about. Even Francis and Matthew had things about them that irritated Alfred sometimes.

Not Ludwig.

On his way back, he stopped at a book shop, slinking in and feeling rather out of place in the midst of better dressed patrons, and bought a German dictionary. Just because.

It felt strange, to have a book in his hands after so many years.

He tucked it under his coat, and kept it safe from his father's eyes.

So that if Ludwig ever looked _sad_ again, he could try to say something stupid in German, and maybe that would make Ludwig smile.

And maybe Ludwig would come to think about him just as much.


	12. Waltz of the Moths

**Chapter 12**

**Waltz of the Moths**

There were several words that he couldn't stand.

One of them was _that word_.

Nazi.

The rest of the list was comprised of similar expressions that he had come to hear in his time living within the city. Many of them were so foul that he didn't even like for them to cross his mind, let alone ever hope to come out of his own mouth. Every kind of ethnic slur imaginable, horrible racist taunts, so many—so _many_ —that he could barely even keep track of them all. He knew what it felt like to be called such names, and swore he would never use one.

He remembered walking down the street one day, not long after he had arrived, Antonio at his side, and heard a conversation of two men in passing :

'...hear the Japs finally signed the peace treaty, after all these years?'

'Ha! Took 'em long enough! I swear, damn dirty knees are as stubborn as the niggers were back when they were tryin' to get into _our_ schools—'

Ludwig was glad, then, that Antonio hadn't understood, just so that he wouldn't have to feel as bad as Ludwig had.

So many things, so many words people created, just for the sake of hurting others. Why? What was the point? What could you gain by making someone else feel bad? Not limited to the Americans, either. Immigrants taunted other immigrants. The Chinese vendors wouldn't sit in the same street as the Japanese ones. The Poles avoided the Russians. The Serbs taunted the Bulgarians. The Greeks and the Turks sent each other foul looks.

They were supposed to support each other. Instead, everyone just chose to hate.

He hated those words.

One other word that he hated was 'concede'.

Concede. Conceding meant weakness. Conceding meant giving up. Conceding meant throwing your hands in the air and backing off. Conceding meant tossing away your pride. Disgraceful, to concede. Conceding hurt.

So. He wasn't _conceding_. He wasn't giving in. He wasn't relenting. He hadn't set out to build any bridges, hadn't taken a hammer to any walls, he hadn't intended to let his shoulders fall down in a moment of weakness, and he certainly hadn't intended to be _nice_. He hadn't.

It had just happened.

Somehow, he had tried to put on the brakes and had accidentally hit the acceleration instead. He hadn't been such a bad driver before, but, hell. Not really his fault, not with so much going on in his head. Seeing Alfred that night, standing there on that doorstep and looking so lost, as he had tried so hard to scrub away paint, even as the party had broken out on the other side of the city...

He couldn't say why the look on Alfred's face had made him feel so _sad_. He couldn't say why Alfred made him feel any of the things he did, but it was there all the same.

He had just woken up the morning after, still smelling a bit like turpentine, and he had realized he didn't feel like laying in bed all day. He felt like getting up. He felt like seeing the world. He felt like _trying_.

Alfred.

It just happened.

Anyway, if Ludwig tried hard enough, he was fairly certain he could blame the whole damn thing on Antonio and Felicia. Antonio, who had forced him down this road in the first place, and Felicia, who was suddenly ripping down the stop sign behind his back and telling him it was all clear to go ahead.

He hadn't expected to see _her_ at the door, that much was certain.

Not looking like _that_. Like she'd just won the lottery or something. Her smile had hardly fit on her face as she had looked up at him that strange evening, saying, merrily, 'Hi, Ludovico! Miss me?'

Even now, he still looked over her shoulder to make sure her brother wasn't lurking around. Just in case.

Her perfect hair fell neatly around her face, and her big eyes were as pretty as always as she waited for him to answer. Every so often, her smile twitched, as if she knew something he didn't, and even though he disliked that knowing leer, she was still enough to dazzle him a little. Even after all these years.

Felicia had been the first person on this side of the ocean that had ever been _nice_ to him. The first person that had set eyes upon him and had decided that he was actually approachable, if anyone had bothered to try. The first person to look at him and smile. In his mind and heart, Felicia would always be exceedingly gorgeous. In every possible way.

And she knew it, too. She knew that she had an uncanny power over him. Which was why she had come by, no doubt, with that smile that was very close to being a joyful sneer.

A sweep of the street came back empty. No Luna Lovi had been in sight, so Ludwig had let down his guard. Seeing no threat, he had said, simply, 'Sure.'

He had, if he were honest.

She reached up, resting her hand on the frame of the door, and looked him up and down, dark lashes hiding her eyes every time she lowered them.

'Have you been alright?'

He nodded.

She moved her hand from the door to his collar, straightening it with gentle hands, and he had known then for sure that she was up to something. If she had just wanted to spend time with him, she would've said so already.

'You look so nice today! You haven't been going out for a few weeks, huh?' A gentle pinch on his side. 'You're putting on weight!'

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Ludwig had asked, warily, 'How do you know I haven't been going out?'

'Ah,' she began, easily, 'A little birdie told me.'

That look on her face, the tone of her voice, the sly shifting of her eyes, and it hit him then.

'You did something you weren't supposed to, didn't you?' he chided, halfheartedly, and her smile just grew all the wider.

Her hand flew up then to his cheek, and her thumb started rubbing up and down the stubble he had not yet shaved.

'Maybe! I didn't mean to. I forgot I wasn't supposed to talk to him.'

'Sure you did.'

Kinda hard to be mad.

'Well,' she had carried on, ignoring the gentle glare he sent her, 'He wanted me to come check on you, so here I am. He was worried about you. But,' she added, eyeing him fondly, 'I can see you're doing just fine.'

He was, actually.

Her hand kept on running up and down his cheek, just touching, fingers smooth and warm, and...

What was going on again?

Oh, right, right. Talkin' to Alfred.

Ah. Honestly, maybe he was a little relieved she had broken his rule. Not that he'd admit it.

Alfred was worried, huh? It was a strange feeling, not an unpleasant one, to know that Alfred was still fretting over him. Still trying to seek him out, even though their last encounter had been so awkward. To know that there was someone out there, in the vast world, that was at least thinking about him.

Because if there was one person that could make his mind wander more than Felicia could, it was Alfred.

Alfred's hands, had they been upon his cheek in that instant, would have felt considerably rougher, mechanic's hands that they were, probably calloused and no doubt smelling of machinery. Not the worst combination. Big as Alfred's hands were, though, they'd take up the whole side of his damn face, rather than just his cheek—

...the hell had _that_ come from? Christ almighty.

He shook his head a bit, and was glad, more than anything, that she hadn't noticed the horrible heat on his cheek for that unholy thought ever crossing his mind in the first place.

'You know,' she had suddenly said, 'He kind of reminds me of you.'

Huh? What?

The words had stunned him, that was for sure.

Him and Alfred, alike? Ha.

'How so?' he had finally managed, and he was surprised that she heard him at all, for the deep, weak tone of his voice.

Adrenaline rush.

She giggled a bit to herself, and then said, throwing her arms out in an exaggerated fashion, 'Because! You're both really _big_ and really _scary_ looking, but once you actually talk, suddenly you're not so scary anymore! You're really sweet, and _really_ nice. I think he's like that, too. I'm a pretty good judge of character, Ludovico. I wouldn't have spoken to him at all if I thought he were bad. He reminded me of you, too, because when I first saw you, you looked so sad, remember? He looks that way too, sometimes.'

A silence.

He stared at her, and she amended, breezily, 'Anyway, if he's bothering you, just tell me so and the next time I see him—bam!' She made a fist and hit her other palm, dramatically expressive in her words, and Ludwig quirked a brow. 'I'll give him a good whack in the nose!'

Oh, he believed that. Felicia probably had pretty good practice in smacking her brother around, and no doubt she could hit as hard as he could. Harder, maybe.

He could have said, 'Please do.'

Instead, he lifted up his brow, and said, 'Well! Let's... Let's not do that just yet.'

'Okay.'

'Okay.'

And with that, he had done something he would not usually have done.

He held open the door, and had said, 'Why don't you come in?'

She didn't need to be told twice.

They sat at the kitchen table, and she talked for hours, telling him everything she could think of, and god help him, Ludwig couldn't figure out why his heart picked up its pace a little when she started talking about Alfred.

A strange feeling he couldn't really place. But it wasn't depression; of that much he was certain. Something else.

Restlessness.

She told him how Alfred had bolted after her so eagerly in the street, the way his face had been so tense, the way his voice had wavered, and how she had just _known_ , right off the bat, that Alfred meant absolutely no harm. How could she tell? He didn't understand how she could look at someone and just trust that they meant well. How she could still see the good in people, when most weren't. He couldn't understand. He had spent his entire life trusting no one.

Felicia had never let him down before, though, and he couldn't deny that she was, indeed, a very good judge of character. When everyone else had been afraid to come up to him, still fresh from the ship, she had bounded up fearlessly and smiled at him.

She found Alfred to be of equally reliable stock.

Some part of Ludwig's mind couldn't help but wonder, though...

If Felicia hadn't trusted Alfred, if she had told him to stay away from Alfred, if it really would have mattered to him. If he would have listened to her. Alfred seemed to creep in and gain a little more foothold inside of his brain with each passing day.

The hours ticked by, and before he knew it, it was well beyond dark.

Felicia's last words, before she had left, had stuck with Ludwig long after she did.

Turning back to him in the doorframe, she had said, in an odd, serious voice, 'You should be nicer to him, Ludovico. He looked so sad, you know? When you weren't there.'

A smile.

The click of the door.

He wandered around in circles for the rest of the night, and pondered her words. Nicer. How? He hadn't ever really been sociable, and he was polite, sure, but he wasn't really sure of how to be _nice_ , not like she could be.

Alfred was too much trouble sometimes.

Nice. What, was that like inviting him for coffee or something? Should he look at Alfred one day and send him a half-assed compliment? Should he tell Alfred that his hair looked nice? That that ugly jacket wasn't really so ugly after all? That Alfred was smart and funny? That Alfred was handsome?

Well. That last one might have been sincere. Kind of.

Being nice was too hard. Unfamiliar. He had spent so much time avoiding humanity that actually attempting to engage in it was kinda scary. Felicia and Antonio didn't count, not really, because he knew them by now, and they had been nice to _him_ , the first time. He had just saddled up for the ride.

Too much pressure with Alfred. He didn't know what to do. He reached up every so often, and scratched his cheek in irritation.

Nice.

Finally, he threw himself down at the table and thought, 'Well! If he's _that_ worried, then why is he sending others to do his dirty work?'

It was a valid statement, sure, and he used it as an excuse to take his mind off of how he should act in the wake of this strange word of 'nice'. Better to sit and wait for Alfred to come to him, and that would be a little less pressure on his shoulders. He wouldn't go out, just to make a statement. If Alfred wanted to see him that badly, then he was just going to have to come over here himself, wasn't he? He could do it, if he wanted it enough.

Alfred knew where he lived.

So, he sat at home, and waited. Didn't take too long.

Antonio showed up a few times in those days, and when Ludwig heard footsteps outside, it was easy to figure out who it was when the lock jingled.

Antonio seemed curious about his odd air, and when he caught Ludwig glancing towards the door more than once, he had asked, simply, 'Waitin' for something?'

Ludwig had just looked over at him, and replied, coyly, 'Maybe.'

Half-answers irritated the hell out of Antonio, and it was quickly obvious in the pushing out of his lips that he wanted to know exactly what was going on. He never pressed too far though, and it was easy enough to distract Antonio when he asked questions by just scooting the chair closer and opening his mouth to speak.

Antonio smiled, then, and pushed his head in next to Ludwig's, every so often putting a hand on his shoulder. Curiosity was forgotten in favor of adoration. If Ludwig's mood had improved these past few weeks, then Antonio's had skyrocketed. It was easy to see, as it always had been, what Antonio was feeling, and lately there had been no shadows across his face. No more anxiety. No more melancholy.

No more weariness.

Antonio looked as happy now as he had the day they had first extended hands to each other, and, in some way, it felt like that all over again. Like they had rediscovered each other, in some way. A long stretch of night, seemingly endless, that had been so black that when the sun finally came out again it was damn near dazzling.

Antonio.

Ludwig enjoyed his smiles and his presence.

All the same, Antonio only demanded half of his attention. If Antonio was daybreak, then Alfred was high noon.

He was waiting.

It took about a week for Alfred's antsy feet to get the better of him.

The next knock on the door hadn't really come as a surprise. Antonio had been watching from behind, a little worriedly perhaps, but Ludwig had felt hardly any concern as he had pulled open the door. It was exactly who he had expected.

Ludwig stood there, and realized that he had felt no reservations about pulling open that door. Alfred no longer brought any concern along with him. There was always that distant threat of his father, but that had become somehow a little less frightening. More of a possibility than a probability, or at least he hoped, and now when Alfred was around Ludwig found that he had stopped waiting for the worst.

If anything happened, then it was gonna happen whether he worried himself to death about it or not. He wasn't frightened by anything Alfred brought in his wake, except for maybe that strange, squirming feeling that was very foreign.

Those strange thoughts that sometimes crossed his mind.

All the same, Antonio had been there that day, so pulling open the door all the way was not an option. After their last encounter, Antonio's feelings toward Alfred were still lingering on the aggressive side.

...some part of Ludwig's mind woulda been amused, perhaps, if Antonio were to rush forward and take a great flying leap to tackle Alfred to the ground. Just a little. If only to see the look on Alfred's face. Didn't want him to get hurt, though, dummy, so Ludwig had just cracked open the door, and reveled in Alfred's awkwardness.

It was nice to see Alfred looking like Ludwig so often felt.

Terrified.

He was glad that the big oaf couldn't see inside, because it would have been more than a little embarrassing for Alfred to have seen Ludwig staring at him through the crack as he tried very hard to keep Antonio back behind him. Felt more like trying to kick off an annoying child so that he could hold a civilized conversation. Antonio was determined to break through the door, and Ludwig was determined to make him fail. The hand in Antonio's hair, the one that had wrenched his head down and kept it there, was the only thing keeping him and Alfred apart.

Alfred blabbered on, like nothing was out of the ordinary, completely oblivious to the silent struggle behind the door. Half of what he said was lost to the atmosphere, as Ludwig's mind was somewhere else.

Felicia's words rang in his ears the whole time.

He and Alfred were alike, she said.

The way life had treated him so far—he couldn't really stand the thought that he might do something to make Alfred feel as miserable as he once had. He hated saying it, he _hated_ it, but god help him, he loved it when Alfred smiled. A sight unlike any other.

Alfred was staring at him the whole time he spoke, and he kept on thinking too much and choking in the end.

Oh, where was Felicia when he really needed her?

Nice. The hell was he supposed to be nice? What could he say?

'I _miss_ you—'

Oh, god.

Maybe he was thinkin' about this whole thing too much. Overanalyzing.

Finally, he just forced his mind to shut down, to stop that incessant whirring, and he let his voice do as it would.

Alfred was dumb.

Yeah, he was, and that made it all the more curious that Ludwig found himself thinking about him more and more.

He heard himself speak, but the words were about as aware to his mind as Alfred's had been.

Whatever he had said must have been alright, though, because he didn't feel miserable afterwards. That had to have been a good sign. As soon as he shut the door, he took a great breath, untangled his fingers from Antonio's hair, and felt strange.

Had that been nice? Couldn't ask Antonio—he was bouncing up to the peephole like a dog, trying to glimpse Alfred, and Ludwig was fairly certain that at some point there he had snarled. Well. He'd get over it. And, come to think, he did, almost as soon as Alfred had wandered off down the street. Out of sight, out of mind, apparently.

Sometimes, Ludwig looked at Antonio and realized that, as much as he couldn't understand Felicia's good will, he couldn't understand Antonio's optimism. Antonio had seen Ludwig's improvement, and just seemed to know that everything was alright. Antonio knew, somehow, that nothing bad would happen. How? How could he just be so certain that everything would work out?

Antonio didn't spend every waking moment in Ludwig's house now. It was a little disappointing in a way, but Ludwig realized that every second of Antonio's entire existence did not have to revolve around him, and now that he was doing so much better, Antonio could actually go out and have some alone time and not worry that doing so would result in something catastrophic. Antonio could let him go to the bathroom and not worry that he would get too friendly with a razor. Antonio could have fun, outside of these walls. Antonio deserved it. Kinda sad, though, to come downstairs to see his couch empty.

Oh, well.

He still came by, of course he did, because that was what friends did, but it wasn't quite like it had been before. Antonio could see his improvement, could see that he was doing fine on his own, and realized that Ludwig didn't need him every second anymore. Antonio deserved to have his own life. Sure did _miss_ him, though. He'd gotten so used to having someone constantly by his side that being alone again was somehow rather frightening.

When he was alone, he thought far too much, and found his eyes wandering up to the mantle. Rather not look there. He'd spent too much time trying to forget that entire thing, too much time pretending it had never happened. Easier to just pretend that the dog was running around in the park.

Hurt too much to look there.

In Antonio's absence and trying to keep his eyes from something else, he found himself lifting up his curtain all too often and waiting to see if someone would come to visit.

Felicia dropped by every so often, and Ludwig was glad, sure, but...

She hadn't really been who he had been hoping for.

He loved hearing the lock click, and looking up to see Antonio, and yet...

He had kind of hoped for a knock instead.

All the same, when Felicia smiled at him from the step, he opened the door, swept his hand in front of him in playful chivalry that he could have never managed to pull off just a few weeks ago, and when she put her heels together and lifted up her skirt, he was pretty sure he almost smiled.

Almost.

When Antonio grabbed his hand and yanked him to the side so that he could wrap his arm around Ludwig's neck, when Antonio ruffled his hair and forced him to break free if he wanted to breathe, Ludwig always played along with him, but he never really felt himself beaming afterward.

Close. But not quite.

Nonetheless, Antonio and Felicia saw something different in him, whether Ludwig did or not. They stared at him quite a bit, it seemed.

It wasn't clear to him, but Felicia could see something strange in his air. She smiled up at him the next time they met, head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed in focus, and then she put her hand on the small of his back when they came to rest in the kitchen.

"You walk differently now, Ludovico. Did you know?"

No, he hadn't noticed. His feet didn't feel so heavy. Maybe that was why.

It wasn't that obvious to him, but Antonio could see something there on his face. For the first time in months, Antonio's smile actually reached his eyes as he looked Ludwig up and down. A warm hand flew up, and patted his cheek in airy friendliness.

"I'm so glad you're feeling _better_ , Ludwig. I really am."

Better.

He felt better. He felt closer and closer to normal, and in that he felt exceptional, because he had _never_ been normal. Being normal was a luxury.

They made more notes about him as the days went, but he had yet to be aware himself of any differences. Felicia mentioned that he had started holding his chin higher as he walked. Antonio said to him one day that his face looked brighter. Felicia commented on the way he had started trimming his sideburns. Antonio grabbed his upper arm, and pointed out the increasingly girth of it.

Weeks passed.

He felt better.

Alfred grew ever bolder.

And by growing bolder, Ludwig meant that Alfred had wised up and caught on. Ludwig had made a point of making Alfred come to him, and maybe that had been too obvious. Somehow, he wondered if maybe Alfred had become keen to his game and flipped it around. Because, god help him, when Alfred didn't come knocking before a certain time, Ludwig always took to that same street corner.

Like an ant that had been called by the queen.

Alfred always found him there.

He hadn't noticed any of the physical differences that Felicia and Antonio did, but he was very much aware that when he saw Alfred, his chest lit up and his stomach squirmed. Couldn't say why, though.

Friend.

Soon, the winter air grew a bit milder.

Ludwig found that, lately, he had become rather complacent with his job at the shop, and hadn't really gone out to actively look for another, although he knew that he needed to. Shameful, yeah, but for some unholy reason his mind had become so preoccupied with Alfred that it was hard to focus on anything else, even something so important.

Complacency. That hadn't ever been a word he would have attached to himself before. He was always preoccupied. Sometimes, he forgot to pay his bills, until Antonio reminded him. He forgot to eat dinner other times, until Felicia chided him.

Alfred was going to ruin him one day, one way or another.

Absentminded.

Every day was just a long, boring vigil of the clock. Time didn't even really seem to start moving until it was time to meet Alfred.

Every time he went to that corner, there was never any worry in his mind that something would go wrong, that Alfred would bring somebody else and that the line would be set back. Once, maybe Alfred's uncle and the awkward incident might have put him into such a foul mood that he would have tried very hard to never show his face around Alfred again.

Honestly, he couldn't say it bothered him too much. He was over it.

Alfred was who he went there to meet, anyway, so he didn't see much reason in being upset by something like that. Who said that you had to get along with every member of your friend's family?

Friend.

That word had been popping into his head a lot lately. More like every day.

All he did anymore was wait for Alfred. He felt like a dog, sometimes. When Alfred was around, the confusing question about the purpose of life seemed a little less important. Come to think, everything seemed a little less important when Alfred was around.

Someone who cared.

No doubt that the sun was in the same spot it always had been, the stars still sat where they sat every night, and the moon and planets were still very much in place, but when Alfred was around, it seemed like the universe started spinning in the completely opposite direction.

Or maybe that was just his head.

Alfred seemed to leave him dazed and confused and unable to sort up from down.

Like he'd been hit by a train.

Seeing stars.

* * *

One morning, before he could set out for the day, he was intercepted.

A knock on the door.

He knew who it was, and pulled it open quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. _So_ quickly, actually, that he very nearly skidded on the wood and fell flat on his face as he reached for the handle. A little pathetic. Was he starting to appear desperate?

Didn't matter. When he yanked the door open and saw Alfred standing there, he didn't _care_ how desperate he was or how pitiful, because there went those damn stars again, spinnin' all over the place.

He opened his mouth, and was going to say, 'What are you doing here?', assuming that he would have been able to speak at all.

He didn't get the chance. Alfred got there first.

Alfred, hands tucked in his pockets and messy hair whipping around in the start of spring wind, just flashed him a short smile and said, quickly, "Come walk with me."

Well, nobody could ever accuse Alfred of wasting time.

Without even waiting for an answer, Alfred turned on his heel and started off, and maybe that was because Alfred knew exactly what Ludwig was going to do; scramble for his boots and follow right after him. Didn't even grab his coat, he was so worried about getting left behind. He was supposed to go to work, and the voice of reason in his head said that he should ditch Alfred and get there, fast, because skipping work was rude, and that was not who he was or how he carried himself.

He tried. Hard.

But even though he commanded his shoes to go south, they kept going north.

— _damn_. Couldn't seem to turn his feet around.

He wanted to hiss, 'Alfred, I gotta go to work, get outta here,' and yet when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "Where are we going?"

Goddammit.

Alfred just kept on walking, and replied, "You'll see!"

'Frantic' was the only word that could really describe the manner in which he was following Alfred, and he couldn't figure it out. He felt _stupid_ , arms crossed above his chest as the wind penetrated his thin shirt, hair not even combed yet and clothes very much wrinkled, and yet still he had leapt out the door without thought. He couldn't stop following Alfred. He couldn't seem to get his feet working. Helpless.

Alfred was growing bold, far too bold.

He was going to power-check Alfred, and _soon_ , because that confidence was startin' to get way too high. _Alfred_ was supposed to be the one fumbling after _him_ , like before. Somewhere along the way, a coin had been flipped. Ludwig had gotten tails, alright.

Didn't like it much.

Alfred slowed his pace, once he was sure that he was being followed, and Ludwig had half a mind to kick him in the shin, just to let him know that these actions were not appreciated.

He didn't.

Lately, it seemed, his mind had been all talk. No matter how many times he wanted to smack Alfred around, his body just wouldn't ever seem to follow through with it. Couldn't seem to bring himself to hurt the dope. He wouldn't ever say it aloud, but...he'd gotten attached. Just a little.

Streets came and went. Familiar ones twisted around, and became a little less familiar. A twinge of unease.

When it become increasingly obvious where Alfred was leading him, he found himself slowing pace and lagging behind. He had leapt behind Alfred so eagerly that he hadn't prepared himself for the possibilities. A blunder, on his part. Alfred seemed to have a way of making him feel a little dumb. His senses had been diluted lately.

The streets changed a little, and the unease turned into anxiety.

He hadn't been here in a long time.

He found himself looking at Alfred, who had seen his slowing pace and made it so that they were walking side by side, and sent him a rather dreary look. All Ludwig had to do was stop. Just stop. He couldn't seem to.

He tried to delay the inevitable, however, and suddenly asked, "Aren't you worried one of _them_ will see us?"

He meant, 'Aren't you ashamed to be seen with me around here?'

Here. Alfred's side.

Alfred tucked his hands in his pockets, still so easy-going, and just said, "Nope!"

Yeah, that figured.

It occurred to Ludwig, as the lights of Broadway flashed off to the side, that Alfred was testing him, somehow. Every time that Alfred pushed him, it seemed to Ludwig that he had reached the limits of his patience as well as those of his comfort-zone. And yet, the next time that Alfred pushed, Ludwig found himself going a little farther. Every time, a little farther. Alfred was conditioning him. Sometimes, it felt like Alfred was treating him very much like a wild animal; tossing the bait a little nearer each time, and waiting for Ludwig to come for it so that he could see how close he could get his hand. Biting was a tempting prospect sometimes, but, damn...

The bait was even more so; Alfred's friendship.

Every step he took now was a testament of how far he was willing to go for Alfred.

Eventually, the line was reached. Their side. Once, Alfred had forbidden him from coming into this side of town.

Now, even though those lines had vanished, he still found himself freezing still there at the end of the block, arms loose at his sides and brow furrowed. It wasn't as if he had never come here before, certainly not, but the few times he had had never ended well, and it still felt so strange. So uncomfortable. More so to come here now with the same man that had told him _not_ to come here in the first place.

Alfred knew it, and looked back at him with a breezy expression.

"Feels weird at first, doesn't it?"

Yeah. Yeah it did.

Alfred would know; he had crossed the line first.

"Well," Alfred carried on, at his silence, "The first step's the hardest. Afterwards, you just kinda forget you weren't ever supposed to go there."

That could be said of many things in life; that the first step was the hardest. Didn't mean that it was any easier to lift up his foot. He just stood there, staring at the street before him, and felt so _defeated_ suddenly.

Alfred was wearing him down.

Lethargic for some reason, he stared over at Alfred, who must have seen his melancholy, and damn if he just didn't want to go home all of a sudden. He wanted to turn around and go back. He shouldn't have been here. What was Alfred trying to prove, anyway?

He didn't move.

Time to get out of here.

Alfred would have none of it, however, and made sure he knew that there would be no getting out of this, sending him a smile that was tottering dangerously on being a leer when Ludwig edged backwards. Why had he ever been nice to Alfred? He had become so bold all of a sudden.

"Well! If you don't want to do it on your own, I don't have a problem holding your hand and walkin' you across."

Ludwig snapped his eyes up, feeling the warmth rushing to his cheeks, and it was with a glare and a 'hmph' that he lifted his foot in the air, and carried on. No amount of gloom would ever merit him having someone hold his hand just to take a step.

He was going to just write that one off and pretend that Alfred had never said it in the first place.

Another step, and then another.

No bolt of lightning came down and struck him. No disaster swept over them, for stepping across that wire. And Alfred had been right—the first step was the hardest. Afterwards, it was just like walking anywhere else.

Nothing to fear.

Flirting with danger wasn't exactly new to him, anyhow. Even if coming here had still been forbidden, he still wouldn't have been afraid. Actually, the prospect of Alfred ever actually grabbing his hand was much more terrifying than anything else he could have ever come across on this side. Hard to say why. He glanced over at Alfred from time to time, and kept his hands in his pockets, just in case.

They walked along, and were left quite alone. No one second-glanced them. Why should they? Just two guys, walking down the street. All the same, it was the first time Ludwig could say that he had actually been able to walk down these particular streets without fearing that he would run into unfriendly faces.

Was Alfred's father walking around somewhere now?

"Hey, you hungry?" Alfred suddenly asked, and before Ludwig could even reply, he had taken a hold of his arm and was dragging him off to the side.

Ludwig had time only to glance up, wide-eyed, and catch sight of the diner that Alfred was pulling him towards. And it was a damn good thing that Alfred had blindsided him like that, because otherwise Ludwig would've run off in the other direction, using his long legs for all their worth to make Alfred eat his dust.

He had passed this little diner once or twice, but he knew the crowd that ate here, and he knew he wasn't really welcome.

Alfred dragged him through the door all the same.

This might have been the time that Alfred had put his hand out too quickly. Because a bite was comin' alright—

Too late. He missed his chance, the second that Alfred somehow managed to drag him through the threshold.

Once inside, he didn't really have much of a choice, for fear of making a scene, and it was a mortifying feeling, being dragged along and then being physically pushed down in that booth and tucking his hands into his lap, glowering down at the table and wishing that he would just keel over dead instead. This place. The bright red color of the seats and ceiling did little to change the fact that he wanted to pitch a fit. Red lamps, hanging over the tables. Rock and roll playing on the radio. Chatter. A friendly atmosphere.

Not meant for him.

The waitress, bubbly and big-haired, was quick to saunter over, and Ludwig could feel his brow ever lowering as she hung over Alfred quite flirtatiously, chewing the end of her pen and placing a hand on her hip.

Her voice dripped honey as she asked, "What'll ya have, handsome?"

Annoyance.

Hmph. Alfred being handsome was suddenly a regretful fact. Who'd she think she was, anyway? Did Alfred know her? How often did this jerk come in here?

His head was muddled.

Alfred, enjoying attention as he always did, leaned back into the booth with uncanny confidence, smiled up at her, and was quick to order a Coke and a hamburger.

The waitress turned her gaze to him, just as friendly, and when she leaned over him and crooned, "What about you, hun?" he coulda just sank into the floor.

Actually, he tried to, and was so low in the booth that his boots were clunking into Alfred's seat.

Far beyond embarrassed, he muttered thickly, "Coffee, please."

A short silence, and then she asked, gently, "What was that?"

Oh, god. He was gonna have a heart attack. Alfred was trying to kill him, he was sure of it now.

Seeing his red face and pursed lips, Alfred came to his rescue, and said, "He'll have the same thing."

She sent him an odd look, but said, "Sure!" all the same, and wandered off.

It was then, perhaps, that Ludwig realized that Alfred was pretty much treating him like a girl. Making decisions for him. Dragging him along for the ride. Threatening to hold his hand. Ordering for him, even. If he hadn't been so utterly humiliated, Ludwig probably would have reached across the table to punch Alfred in the face and then storm out. Had he been a little more vociferous, he might have snarled, as he went, 'I am _not_ your girlfriend!'

"You alright?" Alfred asked, suddenly, and when Ludwig opened his mouth to answer, only a strangled mumble came out.

Fuckin' fuck, he couldn't even form _words_ anymore he was so embarrassed.

As it was, he couldn't even pry his eyes upward, let alone clench his fist, and was fairly certain that he was so red he looked like he could have burst into flames at any second.

Murdering Alfred had suddenly jumped to the top of his priority list.

When the waitress returned and set their drinks down on the table, he couldn't even lift his head to thank her, and knew that she was sending him strange looks. Probably wondering what his problem was. Or maybe what _their_ problem was.

He felt so out of place here.

Alfred started slurping on his drink like everything was right in the world, and Ludwig finally gathered the courage to lift his eyes. Wished right off that he hadn't. People were staring at them. Maybe not because of him, maybe not because they knew Alfred, but perhaps they stared at them just because of the air that _surrounded_ Alfred.

Ludwig looked at him, really looked at him, and realized that Alfred was acting peculiarly.

It was odd.

It must have seemed strange to some people, the way that Alfred leaned across the table, the way his hands were clasped together and set as close to Ludwig's end as possible, the way his eyes were bright behind his glasses and the way he smiled widely enough to show off his canines, the way his boots were splayed out so far ahead that Ludwig had to keep his own pressed back against the booth just to avoid bumping them together. The way his voice had gone from loud and powerful to a low murmur, and the way that with every sentence he spoke, his neck craned forward and sent him ever farther across the table before falling back in place.

Just the way that Alfred was acting was enough to draw unwanted attention. The way Alfred was gawking at him. The way Alfred was smiling at him.

Honestly, Ludwig didn't understand. This whole thing was still a bit above him, and he couldn't quite place the motions Alfred made. This had all gone so _fast_ that he hadn't really had time to process it. Alfred had happened too quickly.

He'd never really been exposed to anything like this. Antonio and Felicia were intimate with him, but when Antonio leaned towards him and pressed their cheeks together or bumped his head, it was easy-going and hardly anything that made him think twice. Felicia's hands were often upon him, but when she smiled at him and put her fingers around his own, it was non-threatening and friendly.

Not like this. Somehow, Alfred was exceedingly intense, whether he intended to be or not. Ludwig found he couldn't even meet Alfred's gaze for more than a second, and that was something he had never had a problem with before. Before, Alfred had squirmed under his gaze.

Now...

Well, every person was different. Maybe this was just Alfred, the real Alfred, feeling comfortable around him.

He could get used to it, after a while. If he tried. He had gotten used to Felicia's friendly hands and the way that she had no problem running her fingers over every part of him. He had gotten used to Antonio pressing their heads together and sometimes kissing him on the cheek during an important occasion. He could get used to Alfred staring at him like that.

Honestly, even though it was scary, it wasn't too bad.

After a while, the other people in the diner turned their eyes away, and Ludwig breathed a sigh of semi-relief.

Didn't last.

Alfred suddenly leaned forward against the table, eyeballing Ludwig in a rather alarming manner, and it didn't take Ludwig long to realize why he looked so excited.

"Say," he began, eyes wide and smile wider, "Um, I was wondering."

"What?" Ludwig asked, warily.

Alfred just beamed.

A short silence, as Alfred gathered his thoughts, and then he spoke.

Wished soon that he had just ignored it, because the words Alfred said then were slow, clumsy, and exceedingly hard to understand.

"Kann ick die Nackt verbringen heute Abend?"

Ludwig stared at him, and he knew his eyes were wide and that his mouth was hanging open a little.

... _what_?

He coulda just slapped his forehead. Christ almighty, if Alfred had been intending to humiliate him, then it had absolutely worked, god, had it ever.

Lifting his chin and sending Alfred a glance of irritation, Ludwig said, primly, "I have _no_ idea what you just said."

Even though he kinda did.

Alfred had no doubt _meant_ to say, 'Can I spend the night tonight?'

...instead of saying more like, 'Can I spend tonight naked?'

Oh, god.

Far from embarrassed and no doubt clueless, Alfred just grinned away at him, and replied, "Yeah. No doubt. But you're still smilin', aren't ya?"

He sent Alfred a foul glare, or at least he thought he was, until he felt that tension on his face, that unusual sensation, that pull, and realized that he actually _was_ smiling.

Smiling. A long time coming. Almost couldn't help it.

Something else followed it.

Oh, _no_. Not that. Anything but _that_. Not here.

Here it come. Rising out his chest, he tried his damn best to stop it, but no matter how hard he tried, he just _couldn't_ —

He raised his hand to his mouth in mortification, but it was far too late. He was already laughing.

It was Alfred now who narrowed his eyes, and said, quite easily, "Hey, knock it off! You know how long it took me to memorize that? That really hurts my feelin's."

God help him, he was so _mad_ at himself for losing control, so mad, but he couldn't help it. He hadn't laughed in so long. Honestly, he almost couldn't remember _ever_ laughing, except for maybe when he had been little and Gilbert had done something stupid.

It felt strange. He hardly recognized the sound.

Everybody was staring at them again, but this time because Ludwig was laughing and no matter what he did he just couldn't seem to stop.

Alfred didn't laugh, but Ludwig knew it wasn't because his feelings were hurt. Not because he had spent hours trying to learn a phrase that came out mangled and was humiliated for it. Not because Ludwig's response hurt his pride.

Alfred looked _mesmerized_ , or something like that, like he had found something he had always wanted, like he had been told he'd get to see a shooting star and saw a bright comet instead, like he had woken up one morning and found out he owned all of Manhattan, and even though that scared the _hell_ out of Ludwig he still couldn't stop cackling.

Alfred's inability to pronounce a simple 'ch' had somehow garnered a bigger reaction out of him than anything Felicia or Antonio had done in all these years.

Alfred. Oh, Alfred. If anyone else had said it, anyone else, he would have shaken his head or rolled his eyes. Not laugh. How Alfred did it, he didn't know.

It felt like hours, that he just sat there in that booth and _laughed_ , until his head was hurting and his eyes were watering so badly that he actually had to wipe them, and Alfred just sat there the whole time and stared at him with that same expression.

His chest ached.

He couldn't even laugh in the confines of his own home, and somehow, someway, Alfred had gotten him to do it in _this_ place, this unfamiliar, unfriendly place, somewhere by all rights he shouldn't have been at all. Like so much else, Ludwig didn't understand it.

When his lungs were sore and he couldn't have laughed anymore if he had actually tried to, he slumped down into the booth, buried his face in his hands to stifle his moan of frustration, and shook his head.

"You're so _dumb_ ," was what he muttered, then, and this time Alfred did laugh.

A little.

"Yeah, I've heard that before. A couple of times."

Oh, more than a couple, no doubt.

They fell silent for a moment, and it was then that Ludwig noticed, beyond the bleariness of his eyes when he parted his fingers, that Alfred looked about as breathless as he felt. He had leaned farther across the table, if that was possible, head low and hands tucked together, and there was a certain light in his eyes that Ludwig couldn't place.

He set his chin down on his folded hands, then, and stared at Ludwig rather contently, lashes covering his eyes as he leered up.

"Was it that bad? I thought I did a pretty good job. Sure did sound good when I was practicing it in my room, anyway."

Ludwig did roll his eyes, then, and tried very hard not to mull the words over too much in his head. Because Alfred passing the night naked was still very, very low on his priority list. Killing him, though, had gone back down a few notches, too.

A sudden image in his head, of Alfred standing in front of his mirror and holding a dictionary in his hand, unshaven and wild-haired, glasses perched on his nose as he waved an emphatic hand around, surely smiling quite proudly at his reflection as he thought himself a sudden German scholar.

Naked.

He buried his face in his hands again, to keep himself from a second round of mad giggling.

Alfred wasn't wearing him down. Alfred was making him _insane_.

He knew it.

"Come on," Alfred suddenly said, with a suddenly charming smile, still peering up at him from below. "Why don't we go walk some more? You don't really wanna go _home_ , now, do you? We've still got all day long for you to make fun of me."

Audacious. Shameless. Foolhardy. Arrogant. Alfred was pressing his luck.

Honestly, though? He _didn't_ want to go home. Not yet.

Not yet.

Alfred had turned on some kind of gravity switch, and he couldn't pull himself out of the orbit.

So he let Alfred stand and walk to the door, and followed. He didn't know where he was going, he didn't know why, and he didn't really care anymore. Not with that strangely exhilarating pain in his chest and sides.

Years and years of darkness, suddenly wiped out by one stupid sentence.

They walked all over the place, hours, and passed by many sights, but Ludwig found himself hardly aware of any of them, not as Alfred blabbered away by his side and kept his attention constantly upon him.

They passed over the Hudson. Then, hours later, Ludwig noticed they passed over it again. Alfred was leading him in circles, and the whole time they had spent walking had been going absolutely nowhere. He didn't mind. Let Alfred circle the city, if he wanted to. As long as he kept making him feel this way.

Dazed.

The sky darkened, and night fell.

When the wind grew colder and the stars were out, Alfred led him back to the Hudson for a third time, and took him out onto the bridge, face as bright as the moon was and looking so _happy_. He had seen Alfred smile. He had seen Alfred trying so hard to keep a good mood going. He had seen Alfred give every effort he had into being enthusiastic. But he hadn't ever seen him look like this.

Not like this.

Not smiling so frequently that even when he stopped there were still lines around his eyes, not walking with such energy that at times he twirled around to speak to Ludwig and then made a complete circle to turn back straight again, not talking so fervently that sometimes he had to breathe through his mouth just to catch his breath in between.

Never like this.

They settled halfway down the bridge when Alfred stopped suddenly and leaned against the railing, and Ludwig observed the situation.

Exhilaration. It was a rather enthralling sensation.

The wind from the river whipping their hair around, their folded arms resting on freezing metal, looking out above restless water, air that was laden with distant salt-water and the flowering trees, people walking behind them even as he felt rather stopped in time, Alfred's hair lit up blue by the streetlights above them, the shiver that ran down him every so often when the wind blew harder, his numb nose and cheeks, the warm scent of Alfred's leather jacket and cologne.

The way the hairs on his arms were standing up, and mostly the way he couldn't figure out if it was because he was cold or because he was standing next to Alfred. How Alfred's voice kept getting lower and lower, until Ludwig had to lean in closer to hear him, and how he wondered if Alfred was doing that on purpose. How that notion made his heart hammer and stomach twist.

The river was nice, sure. The bridge was pretty at night. The lights of the city glimmered in the rippling water. Stars.

Ludwig took little notice of them, though.

Kind of hard to, when Alfred was leaning on the railing next to him, so close that their elbows nearly bumped, and kept on looking over at him. No matter how many times Ludwig turned his head, Alfred was still staring at him.

He didn't bother trying to figure it out, because this was just another mark on the long list of things he didn't understand. He was starting to care less and less about _why_ Alfred stared at him. Just as long as he kept doing it.

At one point, Alfred had leaned in to him, and said, "Are you cold? You can have my jacket, if you want."

Close. Too close. Alfred's face was too close.

"No, thanks."

That was all he said. 'No, thanks.' The day before, had Alfred asked him that, he might have said, 'That ugly thing? No way.'

He wanted that look to stay on Alfred's face, and being even playfully mean might have dampened it a little.

Alfred just looked him up and down, still so close, and then gave a 'hm' and pulled away.

Whew.

The jacket's ugliness wasn't what had stopped him, nor was it just pride. In a way, wearing Alfred's jacket would make it feel as if a line of personal boundaries had been crossed, and if Alfred knew that he was willing to tuck himself into his jacket, then who knew what else he would come out with later on. Alfred was already too bold as it was.

The thought of going home smelling like Alfred was a little frightening. Mostly because it was appealing.

Something was wrong with him, that much was certain.

The night wore on.

Alfred seemed determined to keep him there as long as possible, and it was only when Alfred's stomach gave a great rumble that he seemed to realize the day was going to end, whether he wanted it to or not.

"Well," he finally said, voice a bit low with regret, "Guess it's time to take ya home, huh?"

Take him home.

And that was exactly what Alfred did, and set off down the bridge and into the road, Ludwig at his side. Ludwig felt silly, in a way. Escorted home, like a girl. The third time today that Alfred had made him feel like a woman. How did this keep happening? A little shameful.

...not quite unpleasant, if he were truthful.

Kinda nice to have someone new paying attention to him, no matter the manner.

All the same, Alfred would be put in place very soon, and taught that today was an exception, not the rule.

Soon. But not just yet.

As they walked, he could feel Alfred's eyes upon him from time to time, but he had stopped speaking.

When his house was visible, he couldn't really understand why he felt a little down. By all rights, he should have been glad to be rid of Alfred, and yet every step he took kept feeling heavier and heavier.

The steps came far too soon. They fell still before them, and it was rather disheartening, in a way, to think that when he finally took a step forward, today was officially over.

Something wrong with him, alright.

Alfred, hands tucked in his pockets, finally heaved a great sigh, and, obviously sharing the sentiment, said, "I tried settin' my watch back, but the time on the clocks kept on movin'. Guess I didn't try hard enough."

Ludwig scoffed.

Well, if Alfred ever did find out a way to stop or reverse time, then maybe he wasn't so dumb after all.

Ludwig tried to say something, couldn't think of anything, and stayed silent.

Regret.

Alfred looked up at his house then, tilted his head, and finally said, "You know! You really gotta get rid of those damn bars on your window. What if I ever need to climb up there one day?"

Ludwig turned to him, pulse pounding and flooded with adrenaline, and replied, perhaps too quickly, "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

Alfred blew air through his teeth in false relief, and wiped his brow.

"Whew. Thanks! Came out wrong, anyway."

Sure it had. Not even the most embarrassing thing Alfred had said that day.

Alfred turned back to him, and that look was back when he said, in barely more than a whisper, "You never did answer me before. Can I?"

The way Alfred stared at him had become so daunting. That look. No one had ever looked at him quite like that.

If he had been feeling like a smartass then, he would have replied, 'No, you may not spend the night naked.'

Instead, he kept his gaze ahead, intimidated by Alfred's boldness, and just said, "No. You can't."

"I kinda figured."

Hardly hurt. Nothing Alfred hadn't expected.

"Well, then," he added, "I guess this is goodnight."

With that, he turned, and started moving.

Ludwig found himself very much in place.

Alfred walked off, as he had so many times, and somehow, it was Ludwig who was left standing helplessly behind, stuck on the steps and shoulders slumped, watching Alfred's back and finding himself wishing, _wishing_ , that Alfred would turn around.

Turn around.

Alfred didn't, not that day, and Ludwig watched him saunter down the street, strides strong and wide, until he was gone. He stood there, arms loose at his sides, and he couldn't put his finger on what it was that made him feel so damn...

Unsatisfied.

He wanted Alfred to come back. Something in that could not have been normal, and it certainly wasn't anything he had ever wanted, to be putting his happiness into someone else's hands.

All he could do was walk back inside, sit down, and wish that he could wake up in the morning to this exact same day. Wouldn't be so bad, being stuck for the rest of time in this day.

Alfred was gone, and he was alone again. Couldn't stand it. When he was alone, it felt as if the walls closed in and air was thin. Living in dim, stale light. When Alfred showed his face, the sun came out and breathing was easy.

It was in that moment, feeling so lost all of a sudden, that he had finally realized it.

He had lost to Alfred.

He hated that feeling of helplessness. Hated it. Conceding. Letting someone else take control.

And yet, somehow, he still found himself as a moth, fluttering around dreamily in the dark night, lifted up by warm currents and putting his faith into that comforting glow that might lead to his downfall.

Drawn to Alfred's light.

The way Alfred looked at him.


	13. Sabre Waltz

**Chapter 13**

**Sabre Waltz**

Spring was high.

Matthew's patience eventually paid off, if only a little.

It was only because Alfred knew for certain that Matthew would be more than happy to take Ludwig's hand that he brought him along at all that day.

Matthew performed with flying colors, as Alfred knew he would. Nice guy like that.

Alfred had worried, maybe, that Matthew would be a little stiff around Ludwig, perhaps out of jealousy, but when they finally came face to face on that old corner, Matthew had just beamed like the sun and stuck out a hand before Alfred could even introduce him.

"How ya doin'? I'm Matthew. Nice to meet you, finally."

Nothing in the world could have ever been better than seeing Ludwig's look of relief as Matthew had been so damn friendly to him.

"Ludwig."

There was no ill-will on either side. No hesitations.

If Matthew was irritated that Alfred only wanted to hang out with him when Ludwig was around, then he didn't show it, because, in the end, Matthew was probably the only one out of all of them who was truly a good person in every single way.

Why Matthew still called him 'friend', Alfred would never know. Sure was glad he did, though.

And if Ludwig was irritated that Alfred had brought along a second uninvited guest, then he didn't say a damn thing and was as polite as always.

The handshake ended, Ludwig's tense shoulders dropped and Matthew kept on smiling, and Alfred was quick to insert himself in between them, because he disliked Ludwig's attention being on anyone else, even for a second.

His friend.

Matthew sent him a raised brow of exasperation, but, as patient as Ludwig was, he didn't say a word.

"So," Alfred finally said, squirming himself into their sights, "I was thinking we could go to the harbor."

"Sure," Matthew said, and Ludwig just stood there patiently and waited for Alfred to do whatever he wanted.

He had always been more than a little domineering, and both of them knew that well enough by now. They humored him when he started walking, and when the crowds grew a bit thinner, he couldn't help but throw his arms up and sling them around the shoulders of Matthew and Ludwig. His ability to insert himself had always been skillful, but he was fully ready to admit that if Matthew hadn't been there, he wouldn't have had the courage to reach up and touch Ludwig at all.

Both of them at the same time could be cast aside as 'Alfred's just that kinda guy.' Putting his arm around Matthew's shoulder, had it been only them, would have been no great task.

Putting an arm around Ludwig, though...

He needed a little extra bravery for that.

A tense beneath his arm, a quick glance, but after a few steps Ludwig started relaxing and let him keep it there. What a relief. Coulda died there for a minute, if Ludwig had squirmed out from beneath him.

Matthew didn't flinch; he'd been used as an arm-rest for years now.

He led them along, and every so often, Matthew leaned forward and caught Ludwig's eye. And, well, it wasn't exactly intentional, but every time that Matthew opened his mouth and tried to engage Ludwig, Alfred was quick to interrupt. Couldn't help it. Ludwig was _his_ friend.

Anyway, this entire meeting had been set on his terms, so he should be the one directing every move.

It said a lot about both Matthew and Ludwig, perhaps, that they were able to put up with him.

Matthew didn't get a chance to speak as they walked along to the harbor, and even when they stood on a pier and overlooked the bay, Alfred heard himself babbling on.

Matthew and Ludwig eventually took to communicating in other ways since the airwaves were full of Alfred. At one point, Matthew lifted up his brows, and Ludwig shrugged a shoulder.

Alfred spoke louder.

Was it anxiety about what they might say to each other that forced his mouth to move? The fear that Matthew would speak, and Ludwig would like what he heard? That, as much as Ludwig had replaced Matthew, that maybe Matthew would replace him someday. That Matthew and Ludwig would become friends, and Alfred would become the third wheel.

That they would see the good in each other, and cast him aside for his faults.

Scary, to say the least.

He'd given up everything for Ludwig.

He wanted Matthew and Ludwig to meet, yeah. He wanted them to see each other once and introduce themselves.

That was it. He didn't want anything between them beyond that, except for maybe future conversation brought about in boredom that saw one or the other ask, 'Why didn't you bring that guy you know?'

Still, it was fair to give credit where credit was due, and when Ludwig wandered away to stare down from the pier, Alfred turned around and slapped Matthew gently on the back, leaning in and whispering, "Thanks a bunch. Don't know what I'd do without ya."

Just for being nice to Ludwig.

Matthew just smiled, and looked more at ease than Alfred had seen him in a long time.

"Ah," came the reply, "Looks like you do just fine on your own."

Yup.

He puffed in pride, turned to gawk at Ludwig from afar, and asked, "Do you like him? He's nice, isn't he?"

Matthew nodded his head, and Alfred could feel him scrutinizing him from head to toe.

"Yeah. He's nice. You really took to him, didn't ya?"

It was Alfred's turn to nod.

"Guess so."

Seagulls squawked overhead. The sound of waves pounding the wooden docks. Ship horns in the distance.

Everything felt right.

Ludwig was staring at the water in awe. The first time since he had gotten here that he had seen the ships, no doubt, being unable to wander much before.

Glints of white, as the sun hit Ludwig's pale hair.

If Alfred could have seen himself, perhaps, he would have been interested in the way he had slouched back, hands in his pockets, and the way his lips had twisted into a crooked smile. The way his feet were splayed in ease and how his head didn't hurt.

Just watching Ludwig.

Happiness.

When Ludwig came back over shortly after, meeting Alfred's eyes as he passed in a glance that felt like years, it seemed to Alfred suddenly that 'war' was just a word.

War. How could such a thing ever exist, anyway? Nothing on earth could have gotten him to go to war right now, not when Ludwig was around. Didn't all those men that went overseas have someone that made them feel that way? How could anyone ever want to hate when looking at someone who made them happy?

Didn't this feel better? Had to!

War was just a word.

For the first time, as Alfred zoned in and out, Matthew finally managed to get a few words in. Alfred let him speak, though with more reluctance than was necessary. What harm would it do? Not like he was jealous, or anything...

Matthew was as harmless as they came.

"I'm glad I finally got to meet you. I've heard enough about ya to probably write a book or something, but it's still nice to actually meet you."

Ludwig's brow lifted, and he spared a quick glare at Alfred before asking, "Heard that much, huh?"

Matthew didn't help by chirping, "Heard everything possible, believe me!"

Didn't sound very good coming out of Matthew's mouth, and Alfred opened his own to defend himself, but Ludwig beat him to the chase and griped, "Don't believe everything he says."

"Don't worry," Matthew said. "I wish someone would say those kinda things about me."

Bullshit! When had all these conversations taken place?

Matthew was trying to get him killed.

Alfred caught Ludwig's eye and tried to play it off, but the flush on his cheeks was unstoppable.

Was he smiling? He was pretty sure he was smiling like an idiot.

Ludwig glanced quickly at Matthew, and said, in an effort to change the subject, "Are you from around here? You don't talk like he does."

_He_ being Alfred and his city accent, and Matthew opened his mouth.

Before he could say anything, though, Alfred laughed and clapped Matthew on the shoulder affectionately, still jittery, and said, "Ah, that's 'cause Matt's a frostback!"

Matthew sent him a testy look, and Ludwig lifted up his chin, turning his eyes to Alfred as he asked, curiously, "A what?"

"I'm Canadian," Matthew interjected, before Alfred could speak again, and something in Ludwig's gaze shifted, as if a candle had been snuffed out.

After that, things seemed to get a little quiet.

A few awkward minutes later, Matthew wandered out of earshot, eyeballing a docking ship in what might have been a merciful distraction, and Ludwig crept closer to Alfred's side.

Alfred was so dumbfounded by the _sight_ of him that it took a while to realize Ludwig's look was a little sharp. Didn't worry about it too much, though, because there were better things to focus on.

Ludwig's hair had come loose in the wind from the sea.

"What's his name? Matt?"

"Uh-huh," he replied, with a dumb nod.

Goddamn, Ludwig's eyes were so fuckin' pretty—

"Isn't he your friend?" Ludwig suddenly asked, completely out of the blue, and for a moment Ludwig had leaned in, and it took a great deal of effort for Alfred to stop ogling Ludwig long enough to comprehend his words.

Ludwig's eyes were the same color as the sky.

"Yeah," Alfred finally said, earnestly, "He's my best—well, he's one of my best friends! Actually, he's kinda like my brother."

Ludwig wasn't smiling.

Alfred tried hard to pay attention, he really did, but he found his eyes wandering down to the open collar that was fluttering about in the wind, as Ludwig's eyes squinted to accommodate sunlight and wind, hair lit up white.

Pale and bright in the ocean breeze.

The shade of Ludwig's skin nearly blended into the white of his shirt.

What was it about Ludwig that captivated him?

Everything.

Everything about Ludwig was enthralling.

"You love him?" Ludwig asked, and Alfred shuffled his feet a little in embarrassment.

"I guess," was his anxious response, and he couldn't help but fidget a bit. Had he done something strange? Had he said something odd? If Ludwig wanted him to, he'd definitely be willing to add, 'but not as much as you!'

In a way, he hoped that Ludwig was jealous, because he wanted Ludwig to think about him every second of every fuckin' day, and honestly he didn't care if that made him selfish or strange. Ludwig being jealous meant that Ludwig cared, even if he wouldn't say it aloud.

But what was really bothering Ludwig finally came to light, and he asked, standing straight and tall with his hands in his pockets, "So, then. Why do you call him that?"

"Huh?" was his idiotic response.

Ludwig turned his squinted eyes out to the ships, and looked a little depressed suddenly.

Something Alfred hadn't wanted to see again.

He'd worked hard to get Ludwig out of that rut.

"You don't know what it feels like," Ludwig whispered, loose hair whipping around his face in the breeze. "To be so far away from home. You shouldn't call him that."

His enthrallment was replaced with something close to mortification. He opened his mouth, fumbled his response, and fell still. He was glad that Ludwig was watching the water then, because he couldn't seem to keep his face from falling.

Why _did_ he call him that?

It wasn't anything bad. It was just a name. Matthew knew his teasing had always been of affection. Didn't he?

He scrunched his brow, mind whirring away, and something struck him.

All those dour looks from Matthew.

That was the first time that he had ever actually stood there, looked back upon it all, and realized that maybe he had been hurting Matthew's feelings the whole damn time.

His chest started aching, a little.

His father had said 'frostback' for so long, that after a while...

So many dark glances. Fidgeting.

After a while, Alfred had just assumed it was normal. It was just a name. Names didn't hurt anybody. But, oh, damn, had it ever hurt Ludwig to be called a Nazi. Maybe not so different, after all.

Matthew had been patient, alright. In more ways than he had anticipated. All those years. Why hadn't he parted ways with Alfred and sought out another friend? Matthew was too nice. Still had enough goodwill to cast Alfred in a good light to Ludwig, too.

He felt like an asshole.

That was the first time in months that something aside from Ludwig had been predominant in his mind, and it wasn't really a pleasant sensation.

The walk back was silent on his part, and he let Matthew and Ludwig walk side by side and chat without interrupting them. His mind was elsewhere, and his will had suddenly evaporated. So much so, that when Ludwig was dropped off at his doorstep, Alfred barely managed a mangled wave of goodbye. Ending a night with Ludwig suddenly wasn't the thing that made him feel the shittiest.

The last time he had felt this bad, Ludwig had slapped him.

How had Ludwig made him feel the same way with just one fuckin' sentence?

He and Matthew carried on to their own streets, and Alfred looked over at him from time to time, trying to think of something to say.

Anything.

The streets were as noisy as always, but seemed far too quiet.

When he finally spoke, though, he fumbled, like always.

"Matt," he said, too loudly and too briskly, "I'm—I'm sorry, you know, if I ever said anything that... If I ever hurt your feelings or something, when I was talkin'."

Lame.

All the same, Matthew just smiled, and waved him off.

"Ah, hey. Don't worry about it. Everybody should allowed to be dumb at least once, right?"

Finally, Alfred smiled, too.

Matthew's way of saying, 'I forgive you.'

He was grateful, because apologizing was hard for him.

When they parted ways, Matthew sent him a strange smile that Alfred had never seen before, and when he spoke, his voice was strange, too.

"What a nice day. You and him—I think he really brings out the best in you, Alfred. Be careful, though. You know I've got your back in everything, but maybe you should be a little more careful."

Careful?

"What do you mean?" he asked, and Matthew's smile widened.

"Discretion, Alfred, it's all discretion. Come on, haven't you ever heard that? 'Discretion is the better part of valor'. You and him are great and all, but just remember to be careful. Don't worry about too much right now. Listen, I gotta go, but we'll talk about it some more later."

With that, Matthew darted off, and Alfred realized a little later that the smile had actually been a leer.

Well.

That had been a little odd, and maybe Alfred would have focused more on the latter part of Matthew's words if that one sentence hadn't stuck in his head.

Ludwig did bring out the best in him, it seemed.

On his own, he might never have figured out that he had been knocking Matthew down.

In a way, Ludwig was like a second set of glasses.

'You and him.'

* * *

Every day now, it seemed like he woke up by jumping into a pit of sand.

Walking was hard. His feet felt unbalanced and heavy. Wobbling to and fro. He'd never really been all that light on his feet, but nowadays it seemed as if he found his way around by playing bumper-cars with objects.

He walked into the coffee table once, thinking only about getting outside to freedom, and his father looked up and said, 'Time for new glasses?'

Alfred shook his head and replied, 'Nah. Just clumsy is all.'

At work, he found new and inventive ways to hurt himself when he stopped paying attention. He had nearly made his hand an extension of an engine when he had looked out towards the street and thought he saw a gleam of platinum. He had wrenched his fingers back in the nick of time when he had realized it was a false alarm, and his coworker had sent him a smile, saying, 'You're gonna die in here if you don't stop watching skirts.'

Alfred sent him a dumb smile, rubbed at his hand, and he didn't know why he said, 'Thought I saw a guy I know.'

His coworker shook his head, and just said, 'Sure, Alfred.'

He paid attention, didn't lose any fingers, and yet still managed to bang his head on the underside of a car the next day as he was contemplating whether the best word to describe the blue of Ludwig's eyes was sky or cerulean.

The day after, he dropped a tire on his foot.

Probably cerulean.

Ludwig was gonna be the death of him.

He often found himself staring off into space and wondering how Ludwig would have looked if he had taken the jacket that night. Trying to envision the fit and the contrast of colors. Ludwig and he had very different senses of fashion; seeing Ludwig in his clothes would have somehow seemed like a triumph. Of what, he couldn't say. A conquest of sorts. Ludwig in his jacket would have been his equivalent of raising the flag on Iwo Jima.

To say that Ludwig trusted him.

The 'why' didn't matter so much. Ludwig made him happy. That was all that was important.

He started measuring time by the intervals between seeing Ludwig and being without him.

Night and day.

In the few moments he found himself free, he reached under his bed, pulled the dictionary out, and plotted a way to get Ludwig to smile. Not to laugh, as he had unwittingly made him. Ludwig smiling was his next priority. Rather, a real smile. Hadn't seen that yet.

Most days, he sat on the couch and zoned into the atmosphere as clumsy words ran through his head. Couldn't ever think of anything that sounded right. What could he ever say to make a guy like Ludwig smile the way he wanted?

Outside, the sky was grey and clouded.

A heavy hand plopped down on his shoulder, and he looked up to see his old man's mug. The hell had he come from? Lately, Alfred had almost forgotten that the old guy existed.

The same couldn't be said of his father's attention towards him.

"Arthur and Alice are coming over tonight. Go clean yourself up. We can still try to get you settled."

Settled! Whoa-ho! No thanks!

"Sorry," he lied, "I've already got somewhere to be."

His father's brow lowered as he leapt up and edged to the door, and when he flung it open, the last thing he heard was a deep mutter.

"With _him_?"

Alfred dignified it with no answer, not with a tone like that, and slipped out.

The fresh air was welcome, as was getting out of that house.

Ha. With him. He'd rather be with _him_ , yeah, but that wasn't where he ran to that time.

Maybe just because he didn't understand why everybody suddenly seemed so damn interested in where he was going and why. Why everybody was so fascinated with the friendship he had built up with Ludwig.

Who understood these things? Only one guy he knew.

Francis could, perhaps, shed light upon it a little more. Dysfunctional relationships were Francis' specialty. So he cast aside any lingering feelings of disappointment, walked up those steps, and knocked.

It had been a while. It wasn't fair, but he had avoided Francis since then.

Unease.

Forgotten quickly, apparently, on both sides.

Francis' smile was like the sun when he pulled open the door and saw Alfred, and it was obvious that he was relieved that there were apparently no hard feelings between them.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and yanked him in.

Arms wrapped around him, and he found himself smothered in an embrace that nearly lifted him off the floor. Francis was too proud to say that he was glad Alfred had forgiven him, so he hugged instead.

It struck Alfred right off, during that hug, that Francis smelled a bit like his sister; he had been rustling about in her old room, no doubt.

Afterwards, the scent of wine.

"I'm glad you came by! I was just sitting here, drinking by myself."

Loose, messy hair framed an already red face, a shirt collar was unbuttoned, and Alfred couldn't help but smile.

"By yourself? Where's the fun in that?"

A hand on his back pushed him into the kitchen. Francis always led him straight into the kitchen, no matter what time of day he came by. Wouldn't complain, he supposed, since he was usually treated with wine and food. Francis spoiled him because someone else was missing.

He quickly forgot why he came over.

"Sit!"

Alfred was already sitting. He smiled anyway, and scooted his chair closer to the table to appease his uncle.

"Drink?"

"Sure."

A glass was filled before him, and they made small talk about nothing as Francis ogled Alfred as hard as Alfred ogled Ludwig.

Honestly? Kinda nice.

He hoped Ludwig felt that way when Alfred was staring.

Francis just leered away at him over the rim of the glass, not caring if his staring made anyone uncomfortable or not, and then he spoke up.

"Can I ask you something, Alfred?"

"What?"

A little twinge of nervousness.

"Your friend. What's his name?"

Oh. Whew.

He hated being put on the spot under normal circumstances, but the mention of Ludwig was enough to get him to break into a great smile, and he said, eagerly, "Ludwig."

If the sound of a German name coming from Alfred bothered him any, Francis didn't let on.

"How is it?"

"Ludwig."

Francis' look grew a little warmer, and he leaned back in his chair as he said, "Why don't you tell me a little about him?"

A little?

He could blabber all damn day about Ludwig, and, come to think, that was pretty much what he did.

"He's a great guy. You'll like him, once you actually get to know him. He's smart. He doesn't talk a lot, but you can tell, you know? Lookin' at him, you can tell. He's quiet. He makes me feel like I never shut up! You know, we've known each other for five years, and we never said a word to each other until a few months ago. I watched him walk all the time and never stopped to say 'hello.'"

"You're not the only one, Alfred," came Francis' gentle mutter.

Granted.

Didn't make him a better person, though.

"You think I woulda said something, though, as much as I saw him. You can see him comin' a mile away. He's so pale. You'd never miss him. Have you heard him talk yet? I mean, I always liked your accent, you know, but his! Oh, man, it's a trip, you've just gotta hear it. It's like... I can't even do it justice. You'll just have to hear it. If you can get him to talk once, you'll never stop trying."

Francis just watched him the whole while he spoke, and when his fervent hands finally fell still in his lap, maybe Francis could see the sudden melancholy that he felt.

"He's so nice. Even back then, when I was—he never hit me. He shoulda, he really shoulda, because I was such an ass, but he never did. Well, he hit me once, but the funny thing was that he hit me when I was tryin' to be his friend. Guess I deserved that, though. I got his fuckin' dog killed, and he still let me stand there and didn't try to punch me. He still let me try."

Thinking about it...

Sometimes, he wondered if Ludwig was really just a saint, wandering the earth. No one should ever have been as nice as Ludwig was. That he was still able to laugh, after everything had been said and done.

Ludwig was what everyone should have been.

His smile came back up, as quickly as it had fallen, and the melancholy dissipated. Hard to stay gloomy when Ludwig was on his mind, not with how well everything had been going lately.

Feeling weightless and jittery, Alfred leaned his chin in his palm, grabbed his glass in the other hand, and summed up, simply, "He's really great. I can't wait for you to meet him. I know you'll like him."

He didn't really think about anything he had said, didn't really consider that maybe his endless blabbering would have sounded strange to someone else who didn't know Ludwig.

Maybe a guy shouldn't have said those things in such a breathless voice about another guy. It just didn't seem that strange to _him_. Ludwig was worth gushing over, as far as he was concerned. Ludwig had earned that much, at least that much.

Francis just smiled, a bit halfheartedly, and finally muttered, "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

No hesitation.

"Yeah. Yeah, he does."

Ludwig meant everything.

Ludwig was the only thing he could look back on in his entire life and say that it was worth it.

Francis was silent for a while after that, as Alfred rested his hands on the table and let himself fall back into his head. Talking about Ludwig had taken a weight off of him somehow. Things he had been dying to say to somebody.

The clock ticked.

Outside, the sky was dark. Rain fell. Flashes of lightning across the horizon, coloring the clouds pink and grey.

Francis was looking a little tipsy.

Time to go, before the storm got worse.

He pushed his chair back, clapped Francis on the back, and made his move.

Didn't get far.

"Alfred," Francis said, as Alfred stood up.

"Hm?"

A long, hard look.

"I'm still sorry, you know?"

Alfred smiled.

"I know."

He meant to leave, and was interrupted again.

"Alfred."

Another, "Hm?"

Francis' look was a little strange this time.

"If you... Well, that is, if you and him... Maybe you should be a little more careful with this whole thing around your father. For now. I love hearin' you talk about him, but I hope you're careful."

'You and him'.

The second time he had heard that now. That was what he had come over for, and hadn't even tried to ask. He had gotten distracted. So, he just asked, awkwardly, "Have I been doing something weird? Everyone's been acting strange lately. Or is that just me?"

Francis smiled.

"You're always weird, Alfred. I wouldn't worry about what anyone else thinks. Everyone's strange in their own way, you know. It's just nice to see you like this, I guess. Everyone's noticed how different you are."

He didn't see himself as different, and he didn't quite understand what Francis was alluding to, not exactly, but shrugged a shoulder all the same.

"Don't worry about it. It'll be alright."

His father already hated Ludwig, he knew that. Had known that all along, and Francis had too. Ludwig had been his father's worst nightmare for years. Why give a warning now?

He turned to the door.

Weird.

The doorknob was clutched in his palm. Didn't twist it yet, though.

At the last moment, Alfred whirled around, feeling anxious suddenly, and he asked, loudly, "Can I ask _you_ something?"

Francis smiled.

"Sure."

He didn't know why he asked, except for that it had been bothering him.

"Why didn't you shake his hand?"

He had thought Francis would start fidgeting, but he didn't. Instead, that smile stayed strong, and he just lifted a shoulder up into the air.

"I guess he just wasn't what I was expecting at the time."

Alfred knew his brow had crinkled.

"How so?"

"Ah, don't worry about it, Alfred. That was just me being stupid. You didn't do anything wrong. Neither did he. I was just surprised, is all. The way you cleaned yourself up, and all, I was expecting... Don't worry about it."

Confusion.

Francis' smile was dangerously wide.

"Anyway, I'll make it up to you. I choked last time, but I have a feeling that I haven't seen the last of _him_ , have I?"

Alfred could only say, dumbly, "Guess not."

To be fair, confused or not, that was the truth. If he had his way, Ludwig would be around until the end of time itself.

"But," Alfred pressed, "It's not... I mean, it wasn't because he made you uncomfortable was it? Was it because... You know. The war and all."

This time, Francis' smile seemed forced.

Before he could find his answer, Alfred added, "Because, I know that you had a hard time. But he doesn't have a family because of it, either. And he still got to know me."

Too harsh, maybe, in a way, but it didn't seem fair for some to hold grudges when others didn't, just because of whose 'side' they'd been on.

Francis looked tired all of a sudden.

"I'm trying, Alfred. I guess it's easier for you kids, you know? You can help me out. But that wasn't why."

Easy? None of this had been easy. It had been will-power, for both of them. Francis just hadn't tried.

Couldn't be angry, though, and he tried to smile.

"Thanks."

"Night, Alfred."

"Night."

Feeling a little out in space, Alfred left Francis' house behind and began the trek towards his own.

Going over there had only answered questions with questions. What was with everyone lately? Had he been acting so strange? _They_ were the ones acting strange. Matthew had all but forced him towards Ludwig and now was telling him to pull it back. Francis, a troublemaker himself, had always encouraged his spontaneity and now was advising caution.

Maybe they were messin' with him, because he couldn't really see what was so different now than before. What had Matthew thought would happen when Alfred finally managed to befriend Ludwig? Francis knew damn well how he acted, and hadn't ever told him to be careful in front of the old man before.

Just because Ludwig was a German? They'd known that all along. Something else? Aw, hell—he wasn't even gonna worry about it, because it was making his head hurt.

Better to daydream about Ludwig instead.

When in doubt, think about Ludwig. That seemed to be his favorite pastime activity now.

Ludwig. He'd _almost_ gotten that stubborn bastard to take his jacket, he was sure of it.

Almost.

He couldn't really even fathom what he would have felt if Ludwig had actually accepted. Might've thrown himself off the bridge just out of happiness. A proud guy like that, relying on him for whatever reason. Nothing more satisfying.

His flag.

Next time.

His house was in front of him.

One day, Ludwig would look at him and say, 'I'm glad we're friends.' He was sure of it. He'd make it happen, one way or another, because Ludwig made him happy.

Their words of caution hardly lingered in his mind now.

'It'll be alight,' he had said.

Sure. Famous last words.

When he pushed open the door, his father was standing there in the living room, near the hall, mesmerized by something, and Alfred's heart start hammering so fast that he was sure he could have thrown up right there.

Arthur and Alice weren't here; his father's attention was held by something else. The old man was holding an object, and, somehow, Alfred knew damn well what it was.

A book.

He had rummaged through the old man's room when he had been gone, and maybe the old man had been doing the same to Alfred's. Stupid. He should have known better than to keep that book here. Should have left it over at Francis'.

Absently, his father flipped pages back and forth with a thumb, and then he gave a weak scoff.

A look that almost seemed betrayed.

"I was waiting for you. Took a look around. This is what you've been doin' in your spare time, huh?"

Alfred stood still, and gave no effort to respond.

"I was tryin' hard not to believe any of it, I really was."

Looking down, the old man flipped open the book, and the look of disgust was obvious there on his face.

The television blared in the background.

A meeting of eyes.

"Learnin' it? How's it sound? Bet it feels strange, doesn't it?"

He wanted to speak, he really did. Just didn't know what to say.

His father seemed keen on the idea, too, and lifted up his chin above the book.

"Well? Why don't you say something, huh? Say something. Show me what you've learned."

Alfred opened his mouth, foundered, and only managed to furrow his clammy brow and turn his eyes to the floor.

Oh. He _hated_ this man.

Couldn't say it.

"Nothin'? Guess you should study harder."

The silence felt long. Stifling.

The book fell open, his father's fingers clenched a handful of pages, and somehow Alfred knew exactly what was coming.

His father's hands, once so strong and now so weak, still had the strength needed to do what he intended them to, and the sound of the pages ripping from the book hurt his chest more than his ears.

Fluttering down to the ground. Pages. Words.

Just words.

They had meant more than that. It had been more than a book. His old man knew it, too, and as Alfred had hurt him by going after his war trophies, his father was going after him by hitting him in the only weakness he had.

Ludwig.

The only thing he cared about.

Ludwig made him _happy_.

The scattered pages of the book lied there on the floor, and the feeling of hate was suddenly overwhelming. He was nearing the threshold of his limit.

The rest of the book fell to the floor soon after, and their eyes met again.

Alfred wasn't really sure if he was breathing or not, because his throat felt so damn obstructed all of a sudden.

"Aren't you gonna say anything? I know you learned something. Say something."

Push, push, push, that was all the old man ever did, always pushin', always with something to say, always there to make him feel so useless and so hopeless, always forcing him to _hate_ whether he wanted to or not, and oh, fuckin' _Christ_ , he was pushin' too far this time, just too _far_ —

"Christ, _Alfred_!" his father cried, in a loud voice that was a mixture of rage and horror and complete disbelief, "To know how many damn good men died out there, and the last thing they ever heard was someone screamin' at 'em in that awful, ugly language, and you've got a goddamn book—Jesus, to hear that comin' from your mouth, I'd have a heart attack, I swear I would! Good men! My friends! If you'd ever heard the way they were _screamin'_!"

Good men died. The last thing they had ever heard was a soldier screeching in German against the gunfire.

He hung his head.

Good men died all the _time_.

All the time.

The war was over. Why couldn't his father get it through his head?

"Alfred, what are you doin'? Why are you doing this to me? Do you wanna see me dead? Do you? Do you want to just shame us all? I spent years out there bustin' my ass to protect you, and this _name_! Don't ya care? Well? Why are you _doing_ this to me? I stood there in front of Panzers and looked back at the machine-gun bunkers, and I was _never_ scared, but I am now! I don't know what's _wrong_ with you!"

Panzers.

Fuckin' _Panzers_.

And then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he was _sick_ of hearing about the war. He was sick of it. The war was over.

War wasn't just a word. War existed because men like his father existed. Because, for some people, hate felt better than that exhilaration he felt when he was around Ludwig.

Hate.

His father's foot stomped on the pages, and it may as well have been his goddamn heart down there on the floor for the way he felt.

A shake of his father's head.

"Alfred, you don't understand—"

"You're right!" he interrupted, so sick with rage that he couldn't control himself, and he braced his feet as he resisted the urge to reach out and punch the wall, "You're right, I don't understand! The war's over, dad! It's over, you won, alright? You won! What else do ya want? You fuckin' won! Just let it die, won't you?"

His father had never let it die—how could he? It had apparently been the only moment of his life that had ever been worthwhile, and that was what Alfred could never understand. What was the point of living at all, if a goddamn war was the best thing that had happened in your life? Why go on? How could you ever be proud of yourself?

His father just shook his head, never understanding, and was quick to blame the only thing he could.

"You're around him too much, too much. He's got you all mixed up. He's not... You go after him so much, Alfred, I don't understand. You're my kid, always will be, and god knows I love ya, but I _can't_. You and _him_ —I can't— I don't even wanna _think_ —"

There it was again.

'You and him.'

His father trailed off for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, and then he finally seemed to grasp on to something tangible. His father's next words hurt, as much as anything could.

"There's somethin' wrong with you, Alfred. You're not right."

His worst fear.

His whole life had been spent feeling as though something were wrong. As if he were _wrong_.

No.

Christ, Ludwig had actually smiled the other day, as those words had fallen so clumsily from his lips in that language, that language that the old man had told him was so ugly and had still sounded anything but when it had actually come out of his mouth, and when Ludwig had laughed—fuckin' _laughed_ —he had felt _right_ for once.

He wasn't the one mixed up. He wasn't.

Maybe it had become 'you and him', and so what? He was happy that way. If the entire earth had just died off then and he and Ludwig were the only two left, he coulda been happy with that.

So yeah.

Him and Ludwig. That was fine. Ideal.

He and his father just couldn't seem to understand each other anymore, couldn't seem to find that old camaraderie they had once had, and now it was easier than ever before to look at each other as strangers. He didn't recognize the old man anymore, and his father surely felt the same. Standing there, those pages laying between them like a great rift, they could only stare at each other, and _oh_...

He had thought it.

He wouldn't lie; it had crossed his mind before.

But this was the first time, the first and only time, that Alfred could say it.

Fists clenched and brow crinkled somewhere between anger and hurt, he looked his father in the eye, and said, softly, "I spent all that time waiting for you...and now— Now, I just wish you hadn't come back."

If his father had hurt him, then it was returned in equal proportions.

The old man's face fell, as much as it ever could, and he swallowed.

His father had said that the thing that had gotten him through the war was the thought of Alfred waiting for him at home. Knowing that that reason had grown up to hate him must have been devastating.

Too far. It had all gone too far. The breaking point had been reached.

There was no going back after those words had been uttered.

The worst part of it all, perhaps, was that he _meant_ them.

He wished his father had never come back. Then he could have at least grown up with Francis and clung to the stupid notion that his old man truly had been a hero. That his father had been worth the idolization, worth the pain and the doubt.

Worth it.

That would have been better.

There was nothing else worthwhile here, not here, and Alfred saw no point in lingering. He turned around, insinuating a point of finality between them, and reached for the door.

His father, for whatever unholy reason, followed him.

"Wait—"

He had never laid a hand on his father, never, had never dreamed of it, had never wanted to do it, but when the stupid son of a bitch reached out and grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back, it was as if those old gates had opened up again, only this time hell was set loose within him.

He whirled around without thought, without really meaning to, and punched his father in the face.

A stunned grunt of surprise, and the old man fell to the floor with a thud. He was quick enough to pull himself up onto his elbows, but afterwards he fell still and just looked up.

The world felt like it had stopped.

His stomach churned, and his head lit up on fire.

His father laid there, staring up at him in disbelief, and never in his life had Alfred felt so _bad_. For so many reasons, many that he couldn't even put his finger on, and never had he thought it would ever come to this.

It never ended. It never stopped.

Hate never died.

It hurt, the things that were crossing his mind. That he should have hit the old man harder. That he wished he would have hit his head as he fell. That his eyes would just shut and not open again. Things that he should have left for his father to feel, not himself. He had pretended for so long that he was better, better, but he wasn't.

He _was_ his father.

They may not have looked exactly alike, not physically, but they were hardly less than mirror images.

He could hate as much as his father could. Maybe he really was _better_ at that, because he was certain that his father had at least taken some kind of joy out of his hatred, and Alfred felt more like he wanted to set fire to the entire world.

It struck him then, that he wanted to hit him again.

He wanted to.

That frightened him, in a way, and he was quick to turn around again and flee through the door.

His father yanked himself to his feet, staggering to the frame and clenching it within his hands, poking his head out and screaming after him.

" _Alfred_!"

The shriek of his name echoed through the neighborhood, but he just kept on walkin', because if he _didn't_ , then he might turn around and rush the old man and just keep hittin' him until he didn't get up anymore.

He couldn't stand it.

Using his fists when talking was too hard—his old man had taught him that.

He walked towards the end of the street, breathing through his mouth and trying to keep himself from imploding, and then he stalked back, passed to the other end of the street, back and forth, back and forth, mind whirring and heart pounding and trying to figure out what the hell happened next.

When his feet moved again, he just let them take him wherever they wanted.

He should have gone to Matthew. He should have gone to Francis. He should have gone to anyone else. Anyone. Even Alice.

He didn't.

Francis would coddle him, and Matthew would pity him. Alice would try to soothe him. He neither wanted nor deserved any of , he fumbled his way over to where he felt safest, where he would receive no sympathy, no pity, no empty words of comfort.

He wanted someone who knew him, who really knew him, someone who knew who he _really_ was, what he was capable of, someone who knew that he was a bastard, someone who knew that he was perfectly adept of doing everything his father had done in the right frame of mind. Someone who knew what it felt like to hate and be hated. Someone who knew that the world was just _miserable_ for no reason.

When he knocked on that door again, for the third time, it was answered.

Ludwig didn't express concern at his hassled and presumably furious appearance. Ludwig didn't shake his head and reach out to lend a helping hand. Ludwig didn't utter a word at all.

Ludwig just stared at him for a moment, looking him up and down, and then, in that special occasion he had surely been saving, Ludwig opened the door.

That was all.

And while it was not under the circumstances he had wanted, it was still a strange feeling, to walk through that door into that house. Just not the strange feeling he had expected. He had long dreamed of how exhilarated and thrilling it would be to step inside that long-forbidden place, how entrancing he had always known it would be.

Instead of wonder, he just felt subdued, and somehow shamed.

Despondent.

They didn't say a word to each other as the night grew later, and Alfred was glad, because he was still _so_ angry and so _hurt_ that if he had opened his mouth it was very likely that he would have lashed out at Ludwig.

Ludwig left him later on, and he rolled restlessly on his side, trying to fall asleep upon the couch.

He couldn't. His veins were still throbbing with acid.

_Oh_. This hate was going to kill him one day.

You and him, they said. He'd have hit the old man again to keep it that way.

Ludwig made him _happy_.


	14. Wings of the Phoenix

**Chapter 14**

**Wings of the Phoenix**

He had thought he had seen it all.

Too much, actually.

He'd seen things nobody should have to, seen things that still snuck up on him even after so many years, seen things that normal people never had, and yet it had still somehow taken Ludwig aback to hear that knock on his door so late. Didn't think anything could shake him anymore, but he had been shook up, alright, when he pulled it open and saw who it was.

Shoulda known, though.

Who else would it have been? Not Antonio. Antonio would have used his key. Luna Lovi wouldn't have knocked so much as kicked. Felicia's hands were softer upon the door, just a gentle rap of easily bruised fingers.

Didn't know anyone else, so it had to have been _him_.

Banging, really, more than knocking.

Surreal.

It was one of the _strangest_ moments of his life. Far from the worst. Far from the best. Somewhere in the dreary middle. It wasn't like he had opened the door to see a long-gone family, but he hadn't opened it to see that old gang, either.

Just Alfred.

Honestly, more than anything, Ludwig might have said that he had been dazed. Opening that door and seeing Alfred on the other side. Felt kind of like he were sleepwalking. Stuck in some dream. Hadn't expected it, that much was certain, and hadn't expected that, when it finally happened, Alfred would have looked like _that_.

Lost, in a way.

Distressed and almost disoriented. He had been rubbing his hand without thought, probably from where he had brought it down so hard upon the door. He kept on looking up and down, as if he just weren't able to meet Ludwig's eyes, and Ludwig could see the red on his face, although he couldn't say whether it had been from anger or exertion.

Ludwig had just stared at him, then, because he didn't know what else to do. He didn't even know what to _say_ , so all he could do was pull open the door and let Alfred in.

After all Alfred had done, Ludwig couldn't have very well have turned him away in a time of need, now, could he?

Alfred glanced at him, slouched and looking as if he felt very heavy, and Ludwig had been a little more than surprised when Alfred had just walked over to the couch and sat down. Ludwig had wanted to say, 'Take your boots off first, you jerk,' but thought better of it.

Alfred looked kinda...

Well.

Angry didn't seem like the right word. More like furious. Enraged. Hadn't ever seen Alfred that mad, not ever, not even after all these years. So mad, in fact, that Alfred came inside his home for the first time and didn't say a word. That was a first, from that blabbermouth. Just sat there, chin rested in a palm and the other hand loose between his knees, and glowering at absolutely nothing.

Ludwig came over and sat down beside of him, for a while, keeping a fair distance and watching Alfred as if through a veil of fog. Stunned, as he was. Could barely even believe Alfred was there at all.

Alfred kept fidgeting, kept pursing his lips and looking down, kept lowering and raising his shoulders, and, for a second, as Alfred simmered, Ludwig thought that maybe if he tried to speak to him Alfred might have punched him in the face.

And that was something he had spent years trying to avoid, and so he did now. After a while, he stood up, and went back upstairs without a sound.

Let Alfred cool off in his own way.

Hours passed. Alfred kicked and tossed all night.

Ludwig could hear the creaking of the couch through the thin floor and walls, as Alfred shifted restlessly about. Couldn't sleep, and not just because Alfred's restlessness was disturbing him. Too much thinking. So many things passing through his mind that he felt dizzy and sick. Felt jittery. Anxious.

Alfred.

He wouldn't really have denied that he had been wanting Alfred to end up sleeping on that couch, because Alfred was the only thing now that made him feel even remotely like he was alive, but he wished that maybe it had happened a little differently. He had hoped...

Flashes in his mind of different scenarios.

Alfred showing up late one night, knocking the same way, but smiling when the door was opened. Alfred leaning against the frame and being far more charming as he asked for permission to come inside. Alfred making him the vulnerable one, rather than the other way around. Alfred coming in, rather than being let in.

A little disappointment.

Too late. It was done, now, and Alfred was probably punching his pillows instead of thinking of ways to charm Ludwig.

...unfortunately.

Oh, man. Bad thoughts.

Another thing that had been bothering him lately. Lately, his thoughts had been a little... _off_.

Alfred was creeping into his mind more and more, and the more Alfred came around, the more those horrible thoughts had been popping up. They came without warning, and were usually so alarming that Ludwig forced them away so fervently that he might have been breaking his brain. Just little things, rather inconspicuous, but they seemed to shake the ground beneath him every time they occurred. Made him feel so afraid, more than anything, because they were usually thoughts he knew he shouldn't be having.

Sometimes, when they walked together, Ludwig found himself glancing over at Alfred and thinking, 'He looks unusually handsome today.'

A burst of terror, and he found something else to focus his attention on.

Nope. Not gonna happen. No way.

Sometimes, when Alfred was showing him something and put his hand on the back of Ludwig's arm, Ludwig found himself squirming and thinking that, maybe, it wouldn't be so bad if Alfred had put that hand around his own instead.

A rush of fear, and he tried extra hard to focus on whatever Alfred was demonstrating.

Absolutely not. No.

Sometimes, when Alfred was looking at him, leaning forward as he did, Ludwig found himself leaning in, too, and thinking that maybe it wouldn't have been so hard for Alfred to suddenly lean in all the farther and maybe—

_Whoa_. Hang on. What the hell? Back up.

Something was wrong with him.

And so he usually found himself gripping his blankets at night, kicking his legs, and burying his face in his pillow to muffle his screams of frustration. Alfred was driving him crazy. Him being on the couch at that moment seemed extra disconcerting, in light of these strange new thoughts.

Ludwig, too curious for his own good, hauled himself out of bed in the middle of the night, crept halfway down the stairs, and could hear that Alfred's turning was accompanied by odd, heavy breathing. Thought he would have been asleep by then, but it looked like Alfred was having just as much trouble sleeping as Ludwig was. And if Alfred was crying, then Ludwig would rather not know, and he had quickly retreated back upstairs.

The strangest night of his life.

Sleeping above, with someone who had once pinned him to a wall and threatened him trying to sleep down below.

The morning was exceedingly awkward.

When he pulled himself out of bed, Ludwig knew he looked like hell.

No sleep. Probably pale as snow and heavy-eyed. Didn't even bother shaving or fixing his hair, because his mind was absorbed by Alfred, and all he really did was pull on a shirt and try to slink out the door without making a sound. Ludwig was almost afraid to even go downstairs at all, so daunted was he by the prospect of coming face to face with Alfred in his own home. When his foot hit the bottom step, he leapt forward like a rabbit, bounding into the kitchen as fast as he could so that he wouldn't have to see if Alfred was awake on the couch or not.

Skidding to a halt in front of the counter, he considered everything a success, and heaved a sigh. Like he was suddenly fighting his own war, dodging and ducking and bounding as he was.

So awkward.

What was he supposed to say when he was finally forced to face Alfred?

'Hope you slept well.'

'So, you gonna tell me why you were trying to knock down my door?'

'What the hell is the matter with you, and good god, please stop making me think weird things?'

Whatever he said would eventually depend on the mood Alfred was in, however, so he made coffee, pressed his palms on the counter, and let his mind wander, feeling far beyond exhausted even though he hadn't done anything.

Spacing out.

Too far, maybe, because when he turned around to grab a mug, Alfred was standing there behind him. Christ almighty. Ludwig jumped, just a little, and tried to play it off by darting to the cabinet and pulling down two glasses.

Awkward.

Awkward, awkward, awkward.

His own anxiety and clumsiness wasn't helping matters much, and neither was Alfred, who had been standing so close and so silently behind him that Ludwig couldn't help but wonder what the hell he had been thinking of doing. Maybe a hug from behind—

Nope.

Oh, god, where had that come from? He hoped to Christ that Alfred didn't see the mottled red on his face as he poured the coffee and sat the cups down. Those thoughts had been bothering him so much lately. Killing him.

Somehow, someway, they found themselves sitting together at the kitchen table, hands in laps and avoiding eye contact. Alfred looked as bad as he did. A bit wan. Still handsome as ever, maybe more now than he usually was. Seeing him like that was more than pleasant, sleep-shocked and messy. Stubble on his cheeks. Without that ugly jacket, for once, and thin shirt wrinkled. A few buttons were undone towards the top, as if he had started buttoning it up and then had just said, 'Fuck it.' Could see his chest hair beneath. Easy to see how powerful Alfred was, with that flimsy shirt. Hair sticking out everywhere and his glasses crooked upon his nose.

Would have reached out and straightened them, maybe, if he were bolder.

Or not.

Ludwig, for all of it, couldn't have ever said how any of this had come to pass, had anyone ever bothered to ask.

That man had been everything he had hated once.

Alfred and Ludwig had never been destined to sit at a table together. No one would have ever approved of that. Not Alfred's side, and not his own, either. They shouldn't really have been there.

Shouldn't have happened.

But it had, and now neither one of them really wanted to be the first to open their mouths, and Alfred seemed abnormally dejected. He sat there, quietly, hands in his lap, and stared morosely into his mug, shadows under his eyes and blinking a bit blearily. Every so often he shifted his weight and glanced up, as if, maybe, he was waiting for Ludwig to make the first move.

Well. He'd be waiting forever, then.

Ludwig wouldn't be the one to bring it up, so Alfred could sit there and pout all he wanted. If he wanted to talk about it then he would, but he would have to just say it, because Ludwig wasn't going to ask. Wasn't going to try and pry out an explanation. Wasn't going to coddle him, either, no matter how far he stuck out that bottom lip. Kinda wanted to, though, in a way, if only because he was coming to the realization that he didn't like seeing Alfred upset. Should have enjoyed it by all rights, for all those years, but couldn't.

Hated seeing that look on Alfred's face. Couldn't really handle seeing that optimistic man looking defeated.

Alfred would get by it, though, as he no doubt always did. He'd get over it, eventually, and move on. Things hurt for a while, but only for a while, and then Alfred would take a step and start going. A bit of hypocrisy on Ludwig's part, perhaps, because he wasn't a master of letting things go and moving on, yet somehow he expected Alfred to do so quite easily. But Alfred had always been the one to make it look easy, so maybe Ludwig expected more from him.

In the end, maybe he was right, because Alfred started coming around, almost as quickly as Ludwig had suspected he would.

Finally, Alfred glanced up through his messy hair, and spoke.

"Your coffee is way too strong."

...oh.

Well, then. No problem. Without a word, Ludwig stood up, taking Alfred's glass into his hands, and poured a good three-fourths of it quickly into the sink. Alfred was watching him quite intensely from behind, he could feel it, and it was with nearly-trembling hands that he opened the refrigerator, took out the milk, and dumped its contents into the mug.

Alfred could be smart, but so could he, in the right circumstances.

Setting the coffee, or, at least, the fawn-colored remnants of it, before Alfred, he sat back down, and turned his attention back to his own as if nothing strange had occurred.

A long, long silence.

When he found the nerve to look up again, a strange, halfhearted leer had crept its way over Alfred's face, and Ludwig was glad for it. Too long lookin' like Ludwig had, once. Couldn't stand seeing Alfred anything less than happy.

Alfred spoke up soon after, and his husky voice was a little lighter as he grumbled, "You're kind of an asshole, you know?"

Was he? Hadn't noticed.

"Yeah," Ludwig heard himself drawl, without really controlling himself and face still very stern, "No doubt. But you're still smiling, aren't you?"

Maybe he shouldn't have used Alfred's own line against him. Might have given Alfred more ammo to be ever bolder.

Alfred stared down at the mug, and Ludwig could see the smile become real as he finally looked up. That bright, beautiful thing Ludwig had come to love over these past months.

Something seemed different, though. Something on Alfred's face. A subtle difference, but a difference all the same. A lowering of his brow, a sort of lightening of his eyes, a falling of his eyelids, a softening of his mouth, and it almost looked as if restless Alfred had found a calm place.

Tranquility.

That was another first from brash Alfred.

And it was entrancing, absolutely hypnotizing.

Ludwig couldn't really eloquently describe the way that Alfred looked at him then, but he sure as hell could describe the way it made him feel.

It was the same way he had felt, all those years ago, when that family had picked _him_ out of the hoards of others. It was the same way he had felt when that woman had knelt down before him for the first time and placed a kiss upon his forehead. It was the same way he had felt when that man had lifted him up and hugged him to his chest.

It was the same way he had felt when Gilbert had ruffled his hair and called him 'little brother'.

Love.

A frightening word, for someone like himself, but that was the only thing that could have come close to what he felt. The way Alfred looked at him then made him feel loved. Having Alfred there in that moment, seeing him, having that man at his table, made Ludwig feel as if he were the one being picked out all over again.

Alfred had snuck up on him, that was for sure.

The way Alfred had wormed himself in, the way Alfred had somehow wrangled Ludwig without him knowing it, the way Ludwig had started jumping when Alfred said to without being aware he was doing it at all. The way Alfred had a certain kind of power over him, and the way he was succumbing to that.

In all honestly, beyond that elation, Ludwig found that he was terrified.

Terrified, because he had started _getting_ it. He had started understanding those thoughts up in his head. Because, the more and more he thought about, the more he saw Alfred, the more Alfred was around him, the more Alfred reached out to him, the more he felt that horrible squirming in his stomach, he was finally starting to figure it out.

Didn't want to say it, but knew exactly what was happening.

Love, alright, but not the kind he should have been feeling.

Those horrible thoughts. Those random bursts of exhilaration and jitteriness. Alfred made him trip over his own feet, and it was starting to become increasingly obvious to him as to why. He was starting to understand, and somehow that made everything worse. Understanding seemed to make everything more confusing.

Just wanted to feel as calm as Alfred looked in that moment.

Couldn't settle his mind, not with Alfred around.

Alfred stayed the entire day, and, for once, Ludwig was grateful that Antonio didn't show up. Would have hated it, having this first-time thing interrupted.

Hopefully not a one-time thing, though.

Spending the day with Alfred inside of a closed environment was rather captivating, if only because it was a new experience. Being in a house together, rather than on the street. Having Alfred to himself, as it was, rather than in a public setting. Not that there was much of a difference. Alfred was every bit as loud and obnoxious inside a house as he was in the street, but that didn't surprise Ludwig much. The way Alfred was. Charming as ever, and when the coffee was gone, Alfred stood up, looked around, and then turned to Ludwig.

"Well!" he said, brightly, "Guess I got to base, huh?"

Ludwig looked up at him, brow low, and just said, "Huh?"

Alfred waved it off, and then, oh _damn_ , he leaned down so close that Ludwig had to lean back to keep their heads from slamming together, and he said, "I knew I'd get in here eventually. One way or another. Now. Let's get rid of those bars, yeah?"

No.

Heart hammering and feeling dizzy, Ludwig stared at Alfred, swallowed, and said, "I've got somethin' for you to do, actually."

Alfred beamed, as if Ludwig had actually given him a present or something, but it didn't last for too long when Ludwig stood up and guided Alfred back to the front door. When he turned to Alfred and said, "You can clean up the mess you made," the abashed look on Alfred's face was somehow worth all of that mental turmoil.

That smile. Did him in every time. Nothing quite like it.

Alfred's smile.

Surprised him a little, though, the way Alfred immediately did what he was told and started scrubbing his boot-prints out of the carpet. Ludwig would have helped him, if watching him hadn't been so fascinating.

Not his mess, anyway.

When Alfred had accomplished that task, he had no doubt thought he was done, and turned to Ludwig with an open mouth.

Ludwig interrupted, immediately, and said, "That, too."

A point to the dirty wood in front of the door, and then he opened the door and turned Alfred's attention to the equally dirty steps. He didn't really care about that, not really; just wanted to keep Alfred busy, because the way Alfred looked at him drove him a little bit crazy. Best to distract as long as he could.

Alfred looked dumbfounded, but was still smiling, and when he was on his hands and knees with a wet cloth later, he glanced up at Ludwig and said, quite seriously, "You know, this isn't exactly how I wanted my first day in your house to go. Kinda wanted to watch a movie or somethin'."

Oh, was that so?

"If you weren't so messy, maybe we could have."

The thought of sitting on the couch with Alfred and watching a movie was as appealing as it was mortifying, but Ludwig was too terrified to be in close proximity to Alfred at present.

Those bad thoughts.

When Alfred was finally done, he was quick to skitter up to Ludwig and ask, pointedly, "Anything else? Didn't think I was gonna be a maid today."

Ludwig, feeling a bit weak, just shook his head. Couldn't think of anything, despite his best efforts.

And Alfred leapt on that, coming forward a bit with wide shoulders, and Ludwig felt suddenly as if he were being circled. A little alarming, and he felt himself very much on guard even though Alfred was no longer a threat to him. At least, not in the dangerous sense. Couldn't say then why Alfred was moving like he was. A little jerkily. Reminded him of a lion, stalking around.

Glad Alfred was in a good mood, though.

Alfred said to him, then, "I'm glad you let me in."

'Me too,' he would have said, if he were braver, but he didn't need to say anything; Alfred was already leading him back into the kitchen. He sat down, Ludwig followed suit, and found himself being chatted up before he even knew what was happening.

It was almost as if Alfred was terrified that maybe this was the one and only time he would ever sit here, would ever have Ludwig alone like that, and was using the opportunity as well as he could. He started talking about everything that came to mind, and didn't stop until evening.

Was Alfred afraid that the world would end if he actually shut his mouth for once?

Ludwig sat there the whole time anyway, absorbed by Alfred and listening to every word he said, even though Alfred sometimes spoke so quickly and eagerly that Ludwig didn't actually understand what he had said.

They didn't drink. Didn't eat. Just sat there, and Alfred talked. Ludwig listened.

Somehow, though, in all that chatter, Alfred didn't tell him why he had come over in the first place. Ludwig was too entranced to bother asking.

Before he knew it, the sun was getting low, and suddenly Alfred was heading towards the door. Even though Alfred made him feel terrified and sick, being away from him was somehow worse still. Like the light went out. Didn't want him to go.

Alfred standing there on the brink was somehow abhorrent. Didn't want him to go.

Before he left, Alfred reached out, and plopped a heavy hand down on Ludwig's shoulder.

They had walked together so many times. Talked. But this was the first time that one of them had dared to really touch the other when there had been absolutely no need for it, when there was no one else around. A touch, just for the sake of a touch.

Had to be Alfred.

Ludwig's stomach might have flipped a little, he might have had to force away a shudder, but he kept a straight face all the same, appearing quite stoic even as his mind was getting into a very violent fight with itself about the sensation of Alfred's hands.

"Thanks for letting me stay."

Alfred's hand stayed on his shoulder for a while, much longer than a friendly clap should have lasted, and when his fingers gave a firm squeeze, Ludwig realized that he had absolutely no problem with that hand staying there for the rest of the night.

Guess the wrong side had won that fight.

Ludwig's voice came out on its own then, as only Alfred could force it to, and he heard himself ask, in what was alarmingly close to being a tone of concern, "Where will you go?"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder, and said, breezily, "Dunno! Here and there, I guess. Kinda nice, gettin' to go somewhere different every day. I get sick of one place after too long, you know."

The look Alfred sent him then couldn't really be described, and Ludwig couldn't help but think that maybe Alfred was looking for a very specific response to that statement.

...like what? If Alfred was expecting an extended invitation, then he was barking up the wrong tree. Not that Ludwig didn't want him to stay, of course, but Ludwig couldn't even seem to _think_ right around Alfred, let alone have the courage to say, 'Oh, yeah, come back whenever you want.'

Alfred finally removed his hand, at that silence, and started turning.

Sure did want him to come back, though, so at the last second Ludwig managed to say, "Well, you know where I live."

And just like that, Alfred was beaming again. Ludwig felt more like someone had punched him in the stomach.

The way Alfred could make him feel.

It hit him, as soon as the door shut.

He had wanted Alfred to stay longer. Come to think, he never wanted Alfred to leave. Ever. Although there was something problematic in that for his pride, he didn't much care to deny it anymore. Wanted Alfred there. Wanted him around. If fact, if he woke up one morning and found out that he had to spend every waking moment with Alfred for the rest of his life, he could be quite alright with that.

That was the worst thing. Having to stand there and admit _that_ to himself.

Worse still was that _feeling_.

He had thought, once, that having Alfred over for the first time, that having him there inside the house would have felt so much better. He had thought that having Alfred there would have somehow made everything alright. He'd thought about it for so long. Letting Alfred inside should have been the act that settled everything and made his life finally start to make a little sense. Letting Alfred inside should have made him feel better. It should have been the final act, the final foothold.

It wasn't.

Somehow, felt more like the first act all over again. As if now something else needed to be done.

Made him feel worse.

Letting Alfred in his house seemed to have pulled the rug out from under his feet.

It was hard for him to admit, after a life of such loneliness, that he might very well have been feeling something for Alfred that he should not have been. That he might have been having thoughts that he shouldn't have been having at all. That something wasn't exactly right with him, even though he hadn't ever really been all that _right_. That he was starting to fall in love, after all these years, and that the person he was falling in love with was another man. And not just another man, that woulda been bad enough, hell yeah, but that that man was Alfred, of all people, _Alfred_ , was absolutely terrifying.

Hard to admit, but it was still happening all the same, and he couldn't seem to stop it. Denial seemed pointless.

Made his head hurt, thinkin' too much about it, and he was too scared to talk to Antonio, who he usually sought advice from. Scared of what Antonio would say. Scared that Antonio would think differently of him. Scared that Antonio would stop coming by. Scared that Antonio would no longer be comfortable around him.

The whole thing terrified him. Every thought, every feeling, every sentiment. Absolutely terrifying.

Didn't know what to do, or who to turn to.

To whom could he have ever said _that_? Just open his mouth and say, 'Hey, I think I'm falling in love with a man. What do I do?'

_Terrifying_.

Actually, there was really only one person that he could have ever even _imagined_ holding such a conversation with, and so, the next day, when Ludwig dressed a little too nicely and started walking around the streets where he knew he would find her, he kept on hoping that maybe he was just misunderstanding his own mind.

Hoped that maybe years of loneliness had messed him up so bad that he was just suddenly clinging to Alfred because Alfred was nice to him. Hoped that maybe it was just an exceedingly powerful sense of friendship that he felt. Hoped that he just needed a good knock to the head.

...hardly.

He was good at denying, good at pretending, but he wasn't _stupid_. Harder and harder to ignore it each day. Harder to ignore that godawful squirm in his stomach every time Alfred showed his face. Harder to ignore how Alfred made him feel.

Sure was glad when he finally bumped into Felicia, because his head was pounding so hard that he had to squint his eyes and rub his temple. Too much thinking. She was standing on the corner, waiting for a light, arms full of bags and looking as perfectly primped as always, bright spring dress blowing in the breeze, and the sight of her made the headache less noticeable.

Couldn't remember the last time he had been so happy to see her.

He snuck up behind her, as restless as he was, and it was only because Alfred had been lifting his mood up into ridiculous heights that he had the nerve and desire to duck his head down onto her shoulder, and say, "Hi."

She jumped a bit, whirled around, and when she saw him, she broke into that grand, blinding smile that he very much loved.

The anxiety dissipated a little, and he didn't feel so sick suddenly. She could always calm him down, it seemed, without even a word. Although a word was always offered, because she was Felicia, and she couldn't ever stop talking.

Shifting her weight and shuffling her bags, she looked up at him, and said, almost gleefully, "Ludovico! How have you been? I missed you."

In the whole four days it had been since they had seen each other. To be fair, four days was a long time for her.

It was quite obvious, in her agitated shifting, that she was regretting her armfuls of bags, because she couldn't leap on him as she usually did. What a shame.

That smile, though, was enough, and she popped up on her toes to add, "You look better every time I see you!"

He could only duck his head and grunt, weakly, "Thanks."

She kept lowering her own head to force him to meet her eyes, and he almost wished for a second that he could just cast Alfred out of his head altogether and talk to her about other things. Not an option. Had to tell her, and had to tell her now, because it was going to drive him crazy if he didn't.

Honestly, it was only because he was desperate for her to squeeze the hell out of him then that he said, in a more of a rumble, "Can I take those for you?"

Needed that comfort now. Needed a hug, even if he would never ask for one. That, yeah, but...never pass up an opportunity to be a gentleman, either. His mother had taught him that much.

Felt good, in the baser, masculine part of him, to take the bags out of her hands and unburden her. A boost, however ridiculous, to his ever-crumbling self-confidence. Didn't matter that she had been carrying it quite easily on her own; it was the principal of the matter. Doing something chivalrous could make him feel a little less weak about being so damn hung up on Alfred like he was.

Something wrong with him.

Anyway, the hug he received for his efforts was well worth it, as she jumped off the ground and grabbed him around the neck, and when they started walking, she somehow stuck her arm into his and looped it around. He was quite content with that, too, and was glad that she gave him the time of day.

Would she still, after he told her what he needed to? Couldn't lose her, as much as he couldn't lose Antonio.

Ludwig realized then, as he walked down the street with Felicia and nobody sent them a second glance, that his life would have been considerably easier if he had just fallen in love with her instead. Even the constant threat of Luna Lovi didn't seem quite as dismal as this new situation did. Nobody thought twice about _them_ , not as Felicia had her arm looped within his, but somehow he was pretty sure that he wouldn't have made it very far down that street if it had been Alfred whose arm was wrapped around his own.

He'd tried to fall in love with her, he really had, and he had succeeded, but not in the way he had intended to. He had tried not to feel anything for Alfred, and in that he was failing miserably. He seemed to fail in everything, no matter what it may have been. Couldn't ever come out on top, no matter the situation. Couldn't ever win, no matter the game.

He felt sick, thinking about it so much. Alfred's fault, though, for coming around so much and acting so damn _weird_. It was Alfred's fault.

As he followed her along, it occurred to him that he was treading where he shouldn't have, and he suddenly had enough sense to ask, perhaps in an effort to change the subject in his mind, "Your brother's not home, is he?"

She clenched him a little, and said, "Who knows! He's always here and there. Don't worry, Ludovico, I'll just put all of this inside, and then we can go walking, if you want."

He did, and nodded to say as much.

He was increasingly desperate to _tell_ her, even though he was terrified to do so.

By the time they reached her house and she darted inside, he was so jittery and so nauseous that he kind of wished Luna Lovi would have come out and ran him off so that he could delay the inevitable a little longer. Needed to tell her, but was terrified to do so. How was he even gonna say it?

A step backwards, as his flight response started kicking in. Wasn't gonna be able to do it, he was gonna choke—

A hand gripped his arm.

Too late, and Felicia had already leaned up against him, pressing her head into his upper arm as she started walking.

No going back now. Had to say it.

Somehow.

"So!" she said, when they were well enough alone, far away from her house, "What's bothering you, Ludovico?"

He didn't bother denying it, as her fingers suddenly intertwined with his own. She knew something was wrong, and he was too tired to argue. Took him a long time, though, to figure out a way to word it without having to directly say, 'I'm in love with a man, and I need you to help me out and please, _please_ tell me that there's not something _wrong_ with me.'

Even though there was.

'Please don't hate me. Please, I need you so much, so please don't look at me differently.'

Eventually, he found his voice, and began, carefully, "I need your help."

He could feel her bristling beside of him, and when he looked over, she was leaning forward, quite eager to be able to be of assistance.

Felt a little shame, then, at how happy she was, because as many times as she had already helped him out, it seemed to him like she should have been sick of it by then. Felt like she should have said, 'Again? When are you gonna grow up and handle it yourself, Ludovico?'

He loved her so _much_. Just not in the way he should have.

"What's the problem?"

With little other option and too ashamed to say it outright, Ludwig just grumbled, lowly, " _Him_."

Thankfully, mercifully, Felicia seemed to understand who _he_ was. Unmercifully, she took it the wrong way.

Gripping his hand tightly, she braced her shoulders and said, firmly, "Is it time for me to knock him out? I swear, if he's messed up I'm gonna— Should I do it or should I get Lovino?"

Silence, as Ludwig gawked over at her with wide eyes. She looked exceedingly serious, too, and Ludwig was pretty sure that her chest had puffed out as much as her brother's did when he was angry.

Those two.

A quick, thin, "N-no!"

God knew the last thing he needed was for Luna Lovi to go banging on Alfred's door, assuming that Luna Lovi would have had the nerve to do so in the first place, or the desire. Didn't seem to be so aggressive to anyone that wasn't Ludwig, and Alfred probably wasn't worth Lovino's time or effort. Kinda wished _Felicia_ would clock Alfred one in the nose, though, just because Alfred was forcing him to feel all of these godawful things. Take that bastard down a notch and remind him that this entire thing was his fault. Punch him for having the _nerve_ to make Ludwig fall in love with him.

Her, yeah, but not Lovino.

But she looked up at him, gave something like a sigh, and complied, "Okay. What's the problem with him, then?"

Oh. He was gonna haveta _say_ it.

Felt sick again. He felt himself clenching her hand, rather tightly, and thought maybe he had gone a little paler. Cold-sweating. The scariest thing he would ever have to say to anyone.

She saw his odd state then, and he felt himself being dragged to a stop as she forced him still. He knew he swallowed, as she twisted him around in her surprisingly strong hands and forced him to meet her eyes. Her hands ran up to his shoulders, and then his neck, and then suddenly she had gripped his face and was making him meet her gaze quite forcefully.

She was gentle with him, sure, but she could be a master of tough-love too when need be. Had to be, considering who her brother was.

Her face was alarmingly stern when she said, "Tell me."

She could bully him as much as Luna Lovi could when she had half a mind to.

He folded, and finally managed to stutter it out. Sort of.

"I think... I think I'm— It's just, he's always around, you know, and I think..."

Oh, please _get_ it. He didn't wanna say it.

A long, quiet stare.

Please get it.

She wasn't, though, so he had to edge out a little farther.

"It's... I never... When he's there, I feel— Well, I think I'm in..."

Oh, come on, _get_ it already.

He could practically see the wheels grinding in her mind, as she seemed to be trying very hard to jump right through his eyeballs. Oh, man, he'd forgotten how pretty her eyes were, especially when he needed them to distract him from the fact that he was about to fall over dead any second. Almost honey, in the sunlight.

And then, when his mind was quite ready to shut down, in what was the greatest relief he had ever felt in his entire _life_ , she suddenly gasped, " _Oh_!"

Her eyes were as wide as his then, and he could only stand there, slumped and miserable, and wait for her reaction. Oh, god, if she let him go and stomped off, he woulda died. Couldn't handle that.

Her hands let him go, alright, but she didn't stomp off. She just stood there, head tilted to the side like a confused dog, trying to force something to click together, and then, oh god he'd never forget that, she _smiled_ at him.

Smiled.

"Oh," she said again, much more gently, and then her hands went back to his face, her thumbs running up and down his stubble quite fervently. She looked at him for a while, and then whispered, as if she just needed to confirm it, "Are you... Well, so, you think you're...in love? With him? Is that right?"

He couldn't speak anymore, a breath away from crying under her palms, and just gave a short, curt nod.

Felt so embarrassed. So ashamed.

"Oh."

The only thing she seemed able to say suddenly. Her smile was still up, though, so that must have been a good thing. It took her a long time to form words again, as she no doubt tried to recover from the shock, and when she spoke, her voice was deeper than Ludwig had ever heard it. More of a serious, but still very rich, murmur.

Had never heard that voice, but loved it the moment it came from her mouth.

"Does he know?"

Nothing had ever made him feel so safe as she did then. The terror faded, under that tone of her voice, but was quickly replaced with a _hurt_ that he hadn't felt since he had still been across the sea. Hurt. A dull, nagging ache in his stomach. A never-ending longing. As if he were somehow homesick for something that was right beside of him.

Alfred didn't know, and never could.

Eventually, Ludwig shook his head.

She kept on stroking his face, making him feel even more like bawling than he already did, and asked, "Are you going to tell him?"

He stared at her, as he felt his face steadily collapsing, as the overwhelming reality of it all came crashing down on him, and finally, he shook his head again. Couldn't talk; if he opened his mouth, he'd start crying. He was already blinking too hard as it was.

She seemed just as aware, and one hand went up to smooth his hair back.

Then, she asked, still so gently, "Oh, Ludovico, don't you think you should _tell_ him?"

How could he? Someone like Alfred, someone like _that_. Proud and the definition of arrogant, charming and self-centered. Everything Ludwig hated and somehow everything Ludwig wanted at the same time. A guy like Alfred. Had to be a guy like Alfred. Couldn't ever tell him, because he knew what the response would be :

'Get away from me.'

All he ever heard in his head, when he thought too much about it. Scarin' Alfred off by not being normal. Driving him away by creeping him out. Having Alfred turn away from him with a look of disgust.

He shook his head, one final time, and managed to say, in more of a whine, "I _can't_. I can't."

Losing Alfred's friendship would have been the last straw for him. Couldn't have handled that, couldn't have picked himself up after _that_ , not that. That was something he couldn't have ever recovered from. It had been hard enough carrying on all these years, and Alfred suddenly turning on him would have done him in. That man had been the only thing that had cleared up that darkness. He was alive now because Alfred had taken the time to offer a hand.

Couldn't lose what he had with Alfred.

And then everything welled up, everything started stifling him, every horrible thought, every sense of despair, and, pitifully, he squinted his eyes, dropped his head, and had to clench his jaw just to keep himself from bursting into tears.

Everything felt so _hopeless_ all of a sudden.

Hadn't felt that sense of hopelessness since his mother had stopped talking.

It was bad enough having to admit to himself that he was in love with Alfred. It was worse having to admit it to someone else. And it was the worst, the absolute worst, to stand there and admit to everyone that he was in love with Alfred and then have to force himself to realize that Alfred wouldn't ever feel that way about _him_.

Who ever could have?

She was hugging him, then, and he didn't waste the chance to cling to her, bury his face in her shoulder, and it took every bit of him, everything he had, not to cry. He couldn't really say if he succeeded or not, as hard as he pressed his face into Felicia's shoulder and as hard as he kept his eyes squinted shut, but if he did let a few tears out, then it was subdued enough to where he could fool himself into thinking he hadn't.

Felicia wouldn't acknowledge it anyway, if he had, and kissed his cheek so hard and so frequently that by the time he stopped sniveling he was sure it was red.

The comforting scent of her perfume and hair.

Felt like hours, that she held him there in the street, and when he finally gathered the nerve to pull back and look at her, she was still smiling. Always smiling. Envied that, sometimes. Wished he could smile like that.

She gave him a few seconds to gather himself, and then she carried on without a beat, as if he had never collapsed at all.

"Don't be so scared," she began, still in that beautiful whisper. "It doesn't change anything about you, you know. Nothing you could ever tell me would make me think any differently of you. I love you so much, Ludovico, and I always will. Don't be so sad, please, I hate seeing you sad. Try not to worry so much, huh? You've always worried so much about everything, and it's always worked out, hasn't it? You worry _so_ much."

A hand on his arm.

He took a breath, steadying himself, and when he spoke, when he finally thought of some words, he managed to say, for the first time in all those years, "I really love you. Always have."

Her smile could have broken her face, and Ludwig meant it. He really had. She meant more than he could ever say. Loved her.

Still, though, she was keen to say again, emphatically, "You should tell him, Ludovico. What's the worst that can happen?"

So many things. So many terrible things. Couldn't she see?

He reached up, rubbed irritably at his eyes, and before he could even answer, she added, in an effort to make him smile, "Anyway, who could ever refuse you, Ludovico? You're so handsome. You know, a long time ago, when we first met, I...I wished you would have said that to me."

A horrible flush of red on his face, and he lowered his head, but she seemed hardly daunted, and brought her hands back up to his neck.

"You should tell him. If it were me, I would want to know. You should tell him. Just tell him. Even if...you know, even if it doesn't work out, don't you think you'd feel better if you said it, at least?"

Didn't feel that way.

Felt more like that if he said it, and it didn't work out the way he wanted, he might have gone out to the bridge. Couldn't tell her that, though, and so he just shrugged a miserable shoulder instead.

Telling Alfred _that_ was suddenly his greatest fear.

Still, though, even if he couldn't tell Alfred, telling her had taken off some of the pressure. Felt a little better, but only a little.

A quick bailing of the listing ship.

Felicia saw the slight improvement in his mood, though, and was bolstered enough to carry on with a cheery, "Like I said, I really will knock him out. If he doesn't love you, well, then! That's _my_ problem, isn't it? I'll give him a good what-for and tell him that he passed up the best catch in town, thank you very much! He'd haveta be crazy! I've always said you're the most handsome man in this entire city."

Well. She had said that a few times.

He laughed then, although it might have sounded more like a sob, and he hugged her again, lifting her clear off the ground that time, because he was so _grateful_ for her that he didn't really know what else to do.

So grateful.

Her squeal and her arms around his neck made him forget for a second why he had even been upset in the first place. He loved that woman more than he could have ever tried to put into words. Hoped that she'd be there somewhere nearby for the rest of his life. He couldn't really imagine ever being parted from her, and when he set her back down, she kept her arms around his neck and pressed their foreheads together. She didn't talk then, for once, and seemed content just to give him a little physical comfort.

How she always knew what he needed, he couldn't say, but he knew that he would have done anything, anything at all, for her. Would gladly have died for that woman.

Eventually, she let him go, gave him another kiss on the cheek, and then sent him off on his way, after more words of encouragement.

As they parted ways, when Ludwig had turned his back, she called, firmly, "You tell him, alright?"

He looked back, and gave her a weak smile, trying to pretend that he would listen, even though he wouldn't.

If he had to spend the rest of his life just pining for Alfred from afar, then so be it, because he couldn't ever tell him.

She meant well, she always did, but her world was much easier than his was. She was a woman; it was no great task for her to go up to a man and tell him how handsome he was. It was nothing for her, to say to a man, 'I'm in love with you.' She could have walked down the street holding a man's hand, and that was no big deal. That was normal. _She_ was normal.

He wasn't, and he couldn't say it.

Alfred would turn him away.

He went home, sat on his couch, and stared out the window, mind whirring away.

Alfred wouldn't ever feel that way.

And that night, in the middle of a rain storm, there was a knock on the door. When Ludwig opened up, there stood Alfred, soaking wet and smiling, dripping bangs flopping into his eyes, his boots clunking into each other and jacket gleaming in the lamplight and slickness of the water.

That familiar scent of motor oil and cologne.

A pang.

Seeing Alfred was as good as torture, but Alfred seemed quite oblivious to the effect he had. Didn't waste any time, either; before Ludwig could even open his mouth, Alfred had blurted, "Say! Can I stay here again tonight? It's kinda rainin'."

And, well...

Ludwig pulled open the door.

Alfred may have been the cause of all of his pain and frustration, one way or another, but Ludwig still loved it when Alfred was there. Still loved it when Alfred was on the other side of the door. Had loved it the first time it had happened.

Wished that Alfred would be there from now on, every time that door opened, even if seeing him was driving Ludwig insane. Hell, maybe it was _enough_ to just have him around, enough to feel that wonderful and terrible thing called attraction. It didn't really matter then, whether he should be feeling it or not; it felt damn good all the same. That was enough, wasn't it?

Should have been, anyway, in a better world.

Shouldn't have mattered, who he had happened to fall in love with. But it did, so when Alfred stepped through the frame and into his house, Ludwig could only stare at him and say, dumbly, "Hey."

Couldn't do much else. Couldn't hug him. Couldn't grab his hand. Couldn't say, 'I wish you would stay here forever.'

Couldn't say, 'I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.'

Enough, just to have him around. Enough, to have that sensation, to have that exhilaration, to have what Alfred made him feel.

Alfred tromped through the house (thankfully removing his muddy boots this time, but probably only because he didn't want to clean up after himself again) sat down on his couch, soaking wet as he was, and Ludwig was so _enthralled_ with his presence that he couldn't even complain about the damage being done to his clean upholstery.

Just the way Alfred looked.

Shaking his hair and wiping behind his glasses, Alfred smiled up at him, and asked, quite brazenly, "Aren't you gonna sit down?"

As dirty and dripping as Alfred was?

Once upon a time, he woulda looked at Alfred like he had just crash landed from the sky before striding forward and yanking him forcefully off of the couch and slapping him across the face for having the nerve to ruin someone else's stuff. To have the gall to plant himself on a clean couch while still coated in rain and oil and gasoline.

Now, here, in this city he hated and with this man he had once hated, somehow Ludwig still came forward. Couldn't really help it; Alfred had gone far beyond magnetic, and Ludwig had gotten tired of fighting it off. Easier to just give in.

When he sat on the couch, knees subconsciously pointed towards Alfred, Alfred's lopsided smile made him shiver a little. Felicia's words kept on ringing in his ears, but he was too terrified to even think about acting upon them.

'Just tell him.'

So much easier said than done.

A lean forward, a scent of wet leather and cologne, and Alfred said, in something alarmingly close to a murmur, "I think I like being here."

_Oh_.

This was so _hard_. Hard to keep it together.

Just wanted to say, 'And I like it when you're here, so please stay.'

All that mattered was Alfred. Couldn't ever risk losing it. Losing him. He knew it, knew it had to be that way, but it still hurt. Somehow, feeling it and knowing it and being forced to _acknowledge_ it only made it worse. Being forced to admit that he had fallen in love with Alfred. Made it worse, because he knew that the chances of reciprocation were so slim. So impossible.

So Ludwig could only stare at him, and utter, feebly, "Do you?"

Alfred's smile.

"Yup. Think I'll spend the night here more often."

A dumb, "Oh."

Alfred stared at him for a while, as if hoping for more conversation, and then, when it became clear he wouldn't get any, he finally leaned back with a crinkled brow.

Ludwig regretted it, and regretted his own weakness. That fear was too great to overcome.

Alfred, so outgoing and bold and friendly. Handsome. Charming. A man who could get anything he wanted, could suddenly do whatever he wanted without even thinking about it, could walk up to strangers and turn them into friends. A man like that.

Ludwig was everything Alfred wasn't. Rather, Alfred was everything that Ludwig could never be. Ludwig could look at himself in the mirror and say, rather blandly, 'I'm just me.' Just Ludwig, and he hadn't ever been anything really worth a second glance.

Alfred was bright as could be; a star that could be seen even over the haze of the great city. Ludwig was completely invisible, always had been, and it would have taken the best machinery that even NASA had just to have picked up his weak glimmer.

Alfred overwhelmed him in every way.

Antonio and Felicia had felt sorry for him. They would never have walked up to him if they hadn't seen how hopeless and lost he had looked. Alfred, too. Alfred had only come to him first because Alfred had felt bad about everything that had gone on for so many years. Maybe that had passed, maybe Alfred really did see them as true friends now, but that hardly seemed better.

Wanted more than that.

Couldn't be, because he wasn't bright enough to catch Alfred's eye, not in this huge city. Hell, even if they had been the last two men left on Earth, Alfred could very easily have walked by him and not have noticed he was there at all, the way Ludwig was.

Alfred made him feel great and miserable at the same time.

Alfred sitting there beside of him on his couch made him feel _miserable_ , because Alfred was confident and smiling and Ludwig could barely even lift his eyes up from his shoes long enough to glance over at him. Guy like _that_ wouldn't ever have given the time of day to a guy like him if Alfred hadn't been forced into the position by events outside of his control. If it had been up to Alfred, if they hadn't been pushed into each other, Alfred would never in his life have even noticed Ludwig was there at all.

Couldn't be.

Hard as it was to admit to himself what he felt, it was harder still to admit what he already knew was true, because accepting it hurt. Accepting that friendship was the most he could ever expect from Alfred. Accepting that no matter how hard he tried, Alfred wouldn't ever think about him like that. Accepting that Alfred wasn't like him. Accepting that he was in love with Alfred, and accepting that it was absolutely pointless to be so.

A man like Alfred. How could a man like that ever have fallen in love with _him_?

Hopeless.

It might have been better if he and Alfred had never met.

And when everything was put together, when everything was side by side, when Ludwig had everything within himself figured out, when he had accepted it for what it was, when he had come to the conclusion that this friendship was all he could ever have, there was still that one last unknown factor that he couldn't figure out.

The one thing he couldn't place. The one thing he couldn't really fit into the puzzle he had constructed.

Couldn't understand why Alfred kept on _looking_ at him like that.

Didn't fit, and it made everything hurt worse. That was the one thing he couldn't understand.

The way Alfred kept looking at him.


	15. Waltz in the Clouds

**Chapter 15**

**Waltz in the Clouds**

He'd been floating around in the clouds for weeks.

Couldn't really remember the last time his feet had hit solid ground. Felt like everything just kept on getting lighter and lighter. Either the world had started sinking or he had started flyin'; couldn't really tell which it was, and Alfred didn't really care too much to figure it out anymore. Didn't care about the world, didn't care about the city, didn't care about the torn up book, didn't care about old wars or old men, didn't care about anything, anything at all.

Just as long as Ludwig was _there_. Just as long as Ludwig was around.

Long as he could see that face. That pale hair. Those eyes.

Didn't care anymore if Ludwig was loving him, hating him, hitting him, talking to him, ignoring him, anything, just as long as he was there. As long as he was around. As long as Alfred could see him.

As long as Alfred could touch him.

Didn't really want Ludwig to be out of sight for even a minute. Wanted to keep Ludwig in his cross-hairs every second of every day. When Ludwig was gone, he was jittery. Anxious. Wondering where he was, what he was doing, how he was doing, who he was talking to, what he was talking about, who he was with.

Couldn't take it.

Anxiety.

When Ludwig was gone, Alfred felt lost.

Wanted everything to go as well for the rest of eternity as they had been these past few weeks. Wanted Ludwig to keep opening that door. Things had been going so well, so well, and it seemed to Alfred that every time he looked up, Ludwig meant more and more.

Didn't want to be away from him, for any amount of time.

He had been a bit alarmed when Ludwig had suddenly gotten a new job out of nowhere, a week after Alfred had finally walked through that door for the first time. Some kind of office thing; honestly, Alfred had stopped listening the second Ludwig had said, 'new job'.

Panic.

Because it had terrified him that his routine would be shaken up. That a new routine would distance Ludwig, take him further away. Worrying all the time about what was to become of his plans, but, as it turned out, it had actually worked to his advantage. Suddenly Ludwig worked almost exactly the same schedule that he did (Sundays off for once!), and it made it all the easier for Alfred to keep Ludwig in his sights.

To keep an eye on him.

Talk about a lucky break.

Didn't really want to say that it made it easier for Alfred to keep tabs on Ludwig, exactly, but that was pretty much what he was doing. He might have been a little overbearing, come to think. Couldn't help it; just wanted to make sure that Ludwig was being taken care of every second. In one way or another. Just wanted to make sure that Ludwig was alright.

That Ludwig had no choice but to keep Alfred constantly in his mind.

He hadn't gotten past those two nights at Ludwig's place, though, maybe a little afraid of grating Ludwig's nerves and patience, but he had certainly been upping the ante when it came to being around Ludwig in general. Working his way up, as he always had. Seeing how far he could push without Ludwig rolling his eyes and saying, 'Get the hell away from me.'

A few walks a week turned into a daily thing.

Every day.

Every single day, and it was a routine that Alfred was _extremely_ forceful about. The entire city could have been on fire, and Alfred would have snatched the bucket of water from Ludwig's hands and said, 'No! It's walking time. What's the matter with you?'

Nothing was more important than time spent with Ludwig. Didn't want any second of his routine messed up, and he was beyond glad that Ludwig complied, because Alfred was fully prepared to force him, if need be. If Ludwig didn't want to go walking, all of a sudden, then Alfred would have found a way to make him, even if he had to lie and say that he had something waiting on the other side of town for him. Even if he had to grab Ludwig by the hand and drag him along.

Just didn't want Ludwig to get bored of him.

Didn't want Ludwig to find something more interesting than Alfred.

When they parted ways for the night, Alfred always insisted on walking Ludwig home, no matter the hour or where they were coming from, because the thought of Ludwig walking alone was terrifying. The thought of someone accosting him, for whatever reason, when Alfred wasn't there. The thought of Ludwig bumping into someone who might have, god forbid, been more interesting to Ludwig than _he_ was.

The thought of Ludwig doing _anything_ when he wasn't there, actually, was frightening.

Just wanted Ludwig to be thinking about him as much as he was Ludwig.

Maybe that was impossible, because lately, it seemed, his interest in Ludwig had been steadily intensifying.

The obsession to befriend Ludwig might have tilted a little over to the side of possessiveness, but that just another normal thing for him. He had always been rather possessive of things he had suddenly decided were his. His belongings. He'd been possessive of his father, long ago. He was a bit possessive of Francis. Had been, too, of Matthew, once upon a time. He was possessive of his house, possessive of his bedroom, possessive of his jacket, possessive of his spot at work, possessive of his street, possessive of anyone whose attention happened to be on him at any given moment.

Anything that was 'his' was worthy of possessiveness.

Ludwig just happened to be one of them now.

...maybe Ludwig was getting it a little harder than anything had in the past, but after the enormous struggle to subdue and corral that bastard, Alfred considered a healthy dose of possessiveness rather normal. Long as it took to get Ludwig, maybe it was only possessiveness that would keep him around.

Ludwig's house? A property that he had every right to keep an eye on.

Ludwig's street? His for the patrolling.

Ludwig's other 'friends'? His to scrutinize and glower at and keep tabs on.

And Ludwig himself?

His. His friend. That voice was his. Those hands were his. Those eyes were his. No one went around Ludwig unless he was there, too. No one talked to Ludwig without talkin' to him first. No one looked at Ludwig without getting a glare from Alfred and finding themselves quickly impeded by his chest.

Hey, you. Yeah, you. Lookin' at _Ludwig_? Don't think so. At your own risk, buddy. Don't even _think_ about Ludwig.

So one morning when Matthew, leering over at him from his bed as Alfred slept on the floor, started trying to tease him a little about Ludwig, Alfred found his chest puffing and his shoulders squaring and feeling quite threatened.

Didn't know why.

"So," Matthew began, with a smile that was a little grating, "Where else you been' stayin', when you're not with me?"

Alfred couldn't say that he cared too much for that look on Matthew's face, that annoying little leer, and was quick to say, stiffly, "With Francis."

Matthew's fuckin' smile just kept getting wider and all the more slanted, and he was leaning so far over the edge of the bed now that his forehead was almost slamming into Alfred's.

Smug.

"Oh!" came the somewhat deep retort, "Just with Francis, huh? That it? Huh? Not stayin' anywhere else, Alfred? _Huh_?"

Ugh.

If Matthew hadn't been his friend, he would have drawn back his hand and slapped him right across the face, just for being smart. But he was, and so Alfred didn't, but got a good glare in. For all the good it did. Matthew seemed very much unfazed, and was quick to leap upon his agitation.

"Nowhere else, huh? And here I was, thinking that this seemed like a good chance for someone to go to the other side of town and impose himself on a certain someone else. Guess I was wrong. Guess I thought somebody would figure something out and go visit someone."

Okay.

Friend or no, Matthew was about to get slapped.

Didn't have to sound so goddamn condescending. As if he were trying to beat Alfred over the head that this was a perfect opportunity to go somewhere he shouldn't and stay somewhere he didn't belong. If Matthew thought he didn't want to stay over there forever, then he was dead wrong, but Alfred wasn't sure that Ludwig was so keen.

If Ludwig had offered, Alfred would have moved in.

But Ludwig hadn't.

It was only that thought, that rush of disappointment, that spared Matthew from his palm.

Ah, hell. Ludwig would get sick of him if he went over too much, but being away from him, for any moment of time, was somehow excruciating. The thought of getting on Ludwig's nerves and being sent off was beyond terrifying, but so was not knowing what he was doing.

His friend.

Matthew reached out, poked his shoulder, and gave him a smile that was far less annoying.

"You wanna go walkin'?"

Yep, but with Ludwig.

Anyway, Matthew knew how to rile him up, but it seemed he also knew how to bring Alfred right back to excitement, and maybe Matthew always knew what Alfred was thinking even when Alfred couldn't put his own mind together.

"Say," Matthew said, leaning ever farther over the edge of the bed, "Why don't we go see Ludwig? I only met him that once."

And, well, that was never anything that Alfred would pass up. Not ever.

Still, though, he was irritated at Matthew enough to gripe, "How about you go see Francis and _I'll_ go see Ludwig?"

Matthew scoffed, and drawled, "Nice try."

Francis talked Matthew's ear off.

But, again, there was that possessiveness.

Didn't really like the sound of Ludwig's name coming from Matthew's mouth. Matthew _had_ only met Ludwig once, yeah, but once seemed quite enough, thanks a bunch. Step off. Matthew didn't need to see Ludwig again, as far as he was suddenly concerned.

His.

Matthew, too damn keen on Alfred's mood for his own good, seemed to get that, too, and added, in a rather alarming croon, "What's the matter, Alfred? Don't want me crashing the party? Huh? Don't want me over there with you? Don't want me talkin' to Ludwig, is that it? Gettin' a little jealous, are we?"

Finally, Alfred reached out, grabbed the nearest object he could get his hand on (regrettably, a paperback book rather than a hardback) and swung his arm over to whack Matthew on the back of the head.

"Knock it off," he barked, as Matthew started laughing, and maybe it was his red face and anger that made Matthew laugh all the harder.

So what? People got jealous of other people stealing their friends all the time. What was the big deal?

...damn, though, the thought of Matthew appealing to Ludwig more was pretty damn _horrifying_.

When Matthew rolled out of bed and seemed quite intent to go along, whether Alfred wanted him to or not, there wasn't really too much of a choice in the matter. In the end, he finally wrangled his jealousy, and let Matthew go with him when it was time for his daily walk. Felt a little shifty, though, with Matthew beside of him.

Really just wanted to have Ludwig alone.

When he came to that corner that had become theirs, Ludwig was waiting, as he always was, but something struck Alfred as a little odd. Just something about Ludwig. Ludwig looked back and forth between them as they came over, and seemed a little less perky than Alfred had gotten used to.

A little dim.

Couldn't really say why.

Still took Matthew's hand when it was offered, still gave a greeting, still stood as he normally did. Was still dressed as neatly. His hair was as perfectly glossed as it always was. His eyes were as alert as any other day. Still had near-perfect posture. Alfred couldn't really have ever pinpointed exactly what had been off with Ludwig in that instant, but something was.

Melancholy, maybe.

Like a lamp had been lowered a bit.

Even the stroll itself seemed less enthusiastic than it usually was, and Ludwig walked a little more slowly than he normally did. His shoulders were a little lower. Chin pointed downward more than it had been lately. Every now and again, Ludwig's eyes dropped down to the sidewalk and stayed there until Matthew addressed him.

Matthew didn't notice anything odd, of course not, but it was already bothering Alfred, that something was obviously bothering Ludwig.

It was apparent to Alfred right off that that just wouldn't _do_. Wouldn't have anything bothering Ludwig, not on his watch, and when Matthew reached out to take Ludwig's hand for a goodbye an hour or so later, Alfred tried very hard to make Ludwig look at him.

For once, Ludwig seemed to be trying equally hard to avoid his gaze.

Nope. That wasn't gonna work.

He couldn't really walk Ludwig home that time, not without bearing more of Matthew's smug little sneers, so he reached out, and grabbed Ludwig's hand to initiate a handshake. Not how they usually parted ways, and it was out of the ordinary enough to get Ludwig to glance at him. But only for a second, and Ludwig's eyes had dropped away again.

Alfred might have squeezed his hand harder than he meant to.

Just wanted Ludwig to smile.

And Ludwig _tried_ to smile, he did, but didn't really seem able to, and barely managed a weak, 'Bye', as Matthew started leading Alfred away. Alfred, brash and agitated, was quick to mentally blame the whole damn thing on Matthew. Maybe Ludwig had been agitated because Matthew had been there.

Perhaps his condemnation of Matthew had been a little too hasty, because the next day Ludwig seemed just as distant. Like some part of that new light had been dimmed. Not shut off, certainly not, but Ludwig just looked a little halfhearted. A little gloomy. Hated it. Couldn't stand seeing Ludwig hurt, in any way, no matter the reason.

Even Ludwig's wardrobe had changed a bit. Instead of the whites and blues that he normally wore, it seemed now that he came outside clad in grey and black, even in the brightness of spring, as if he had subconsciously changed his palate to mimic his mood. Probably wasn't really aware of it, but Alfred could sense the shifting of his emotions.

Didn't ever want to see Ludwig being grey again.

So Alfred, being himself, was quick to corner Ludwig, on the fourth day of that dreariness.

That look was making him crazy.

Four days was long enough. Time to spill it.

They were walking along as they always did, a little slower than usual because Ludwig had started walking ever the more slowly the more he flickered, and when Alfred had found a reasonably low-traffic street, he snatched out, grabbed Ludwig's arm, and yanked him straight back into an alley.

Ludwig looked startled, more than anything, as Alfred dragged him back into shadows.

Actually, come to think, it wasn't really startled; Ludwig looked pretty damn _terrified_ all of a sudden. Christ, he kinda looked like he was being _mugged_ or something. Like some whacko was dragging him into the darkness to murder him.

It stung Alfred a little, to really think about it, and to realize that, in all fairness, the last time he and Ludwig had found themselves tucked back into some alleyway, it hadn't exactly ended too well for either of them. That Ludwig had good reason to be leery of being alone with Alfred in an alley. He had tried very hard to forget _that_ , however, and when they were mostly shielded from view, Alfred wrangled Ludwig against the wall and kept him still by thrusting his palms upon the building on either side of Ludwig.

Wanted to let Ludwig know that this was something very different, that Alfred only wanted to help, but maybe trapping him and pressing neat Ludwig up against a dirty wall wasn't the best way to do it. Couldn't help it. He usually did things without thinking of how they would come off or how they would look, and by the time he figured out that he was being a little domineering and might have come off as a little aggressive, it was too late. Already standing here. May as well carry on.

It woulda been weird to change his stance suddenly, and he wasn't gonna lie; pinning Ludwig there was oddly satisfying. Not quite as good as getting him into the jacket, but pretty damn close.

Just being able to get that man in a vulnerable position for once.

Tried to think, though, of a way to soften his image in that moment, if only to soothe sometimes jittery Ludwig's nerves. A way to try and make his brash self seem a little more suave. How could that even be pulled off? Hard to go from pinning a guy to suddenly trying to calm him down. Didn't even need to try, as it turned out; almost immediately, Ludwig's tense shoulders slumped, his chin lowered a little, his face relaxed, and he just stared at Alfred with something more like...

Somethin'.

Didn't even know what that look was, but he knew it didn't make him feel like shit, so that was a good thing.

...maybe.

In a way, it didn't even matter what that look may or may not have been. What mattered was Ludwig's stance, his posture, his body language in that moment. The way he was standing. Loose and pliable and at ease. Compliant. The way people stood around other people they trusted. Ludwig trusted him, and that was something amazing in and of itself. Hadn't ever done anything worthwhile of earning Ludwig's trust, not like this.

Ludwig was too forgiving of everything. Too quick to submit.

Alfred couldn't say why he was complaining. Yeah, he deserved a good punch in the nose right about then, hell yeah he did, but that wouldn't exactly have been too great for his pride or ego. Ludwig standing like that _was_ , and, bolstered far more than he should have been, Alfred lowered his head, looked up at Ludwig firmly, and said, lowly, "So! You gonna tell me what's wrong or what?"

A shuffle, as Ludwig shifted his weight and ducked his head.

Not that easy to escape Alfred's relentlessness, though, and for every inch Ludwig lowered his head, Alfred lowered his too, and forced Ludwig's gaze constantly.

"Huh? What's the matter? It'll be easier for both of us if you just tell me."

For a second, Alfred thought that maybe Ludwig's face had gotten a little red. Maybe that was in his mind or bad lighting. Something.

Then, suddenly, a gruff, incomprehensible mutter.

Smiling in a way that was surely inappropriate, Alfred kept on leering up at Ludwig, ducking and dodging his head every time that Ludwig did, and asked, eagerly, "Huh? What'd ya say? Tell me. What's wrong?"

This time, Ludwig managed to utter, a bit weakly, "Nothing."

"Bullshit, nothing!" Alfred was quick to retort, and Ludwig was looking ever the more fidgety, as if plotting an escape. Alfred leaned in a little, and finally, Ludwig looked up, and tried to meet his eyes.

Another, stronger, "Nothing."

Well.

Hardly convincing, but Ludwig was shifting and shuffling and looked somehow mortified, and even though Alfred wanted to press, as he usually did, something made him back off that time. That latent fear of being so overbearing that he drove Ludwig away. Pressing Ludwig too far once and having him withdraw.

Too much work to let Ludwig slip away now.

Just wished he would have told him what was wrong.

He stood there for a while, hands still on the wall, and then he asked, in one last, gentle effort, "Sure? Doesn't seem like nothing. Can't you tell me?"

A long, silent stare, and, maybe, Ludwig had looked a little disappointed, as if he really did want to say something but couldn't find the nerve to do so. As Alfred's eyes bored into Ludwig's, suddenly Ludwig's mouth opened and his shoulders lifted, perhaps finding a bit of bravery, but when he tried to say something, his voice gave out.

Nothin'.

The bravery fled quick as it had come, and mopey Ludwig looked back down.

Then, a slow shake of Ludwig's head.

Alright, then. Guess that was that. He was disappointed then, too, and regretted that maybe Ludwig didn't trust him quite as much as he had originally thought.

"Alright," he said, and finally stood up straight and withdrew his hands.

Ludwig still stood there, though, back against the wall and looking suddenly defeated.

Hated seein' him like that, so, as an afterthought, Alfred said, "You know, whenever you wanna tell me, or whatever, you can. All you gotta do is tell me."

Ludwig nodded, slowly, and when Alfred reached out and grabbed his arm again, Ludwig let him pull him back out onto the street.

And yet, still, that dimness remained, even when Alfred walked him home and this time leapt up the steps so that he could hold open Ludwig's front door for him in an effort to cheer him up.

Didn't seem to work. Actually, Ludwig might have looked all the more disheartened.

Damn.

Alfred went on home, hands in his pockets and glowering at the streets, and he couldn't say why, but wished Ludwig woulda just _told_ him. All he had to do was say it.

By god, Alfred would have done anything to get Ludwig to smile. Anything. If Ludwig would just tell him, Alfred would have gone to the ends of the earth to make it happen. There was nothing Ludwig could have said that Alfred wouldn't have tried; hell, if Ludwig had said, 'Yeah, I'm upset because I can't see the Statue of Liberty from my house,' and Alfred would have tried very hard to bulldoze the city so that Ludwig would have a view.

If Ludwig were upset because of something going on in the world, Alfred would have set it right, even if he had to hop on a ship and go halfway around the globe.

And if someone had had the nerve to be _botherin_ ' Ludwig, then they may as well have started picking out their headstone, because Alfred was gonna _kill_ 'em.

Speaking of something being a bother; Matthew had been a big one, lately. Seemed that suddenly he wanted to come along every single damn day, and Alfred was getting sick of it pretty quick.

Worse still was that horrible knowing look on Matthew's face, as if he knew he was bothering Alfred and was quite thoroughly enjoying himself because of it. When had Matthew turned into such a little bastard? The next time Matthew wanted to come along, one pretty day, Alfred was starting to wonder if maybe Matthew was trying to see how far he could push Alfred before he got punched. Couldn't think of anything else. Couldn't say exactly what else Matthew could have possibly wanted.

Oh, he'd get a punch, alright, if he kept on.

What did Matthew _want_? What did he want Alfred to do? What did he want him to say?

Didn't get it.

As much as he couldn't find the cause of Ludwig's gloominess, he couldn't find the source of Matthew's intrepidness.

Both of them were out of it lately, it seemed.

Nonetheless, Alfred begrudgingly let Matthew come along _again_ , for the third time in one week, and maybe he had been stomping and stalking more than walking, as Matthew smirked away beside of him.

That day, though, it wasn't Matthew that ended up agitating him the most.

Blue sky. A few white clouds, rolling in the from the distance. The air was ever warmer as spring started nearing summer.

Flowers on the trees.

Alfred hadn't expected it, not at all, but that was probably because he was so self-centered that it hadn't ever occurred to him that he wasn't the only one who could have brought company. It came right out of nowhere to him, and when Ludwig was visible on that corner, Alfred stumbled in his tracks and fell to a complete halt so that he wouldn't fall face-first into the pavement.

Ludwig wasn't alone that day, not that time, and Alfred didn't even have words for how he felt when he saw them.

Good _god_!

Stunned into silence for once, Alfred thought that maybe his mouth had dropped open a little.

He didn't know exactly _why_ it irritated him, what he saw there. But by god, it did. A simple scene; Ludwig was standing on that same corner, but this time, as much as Alfred had thrust upon Ludwig an unwanted guest, Ludwig had brought someone along.

That girl.

And, goddamn, Alfred suddenly _hated_ the sight of her, even after she had been so helpful to him before. Hated the sight of her, because she was very much violating his invisible territory.

Crossing the line. Touching something that belonged to him.

She was leaning back against the building beside of Ludwig, although twisted at the waist so that she could look up at him, and the first thing that Alfred noticed was their intertwined fingers, resting quite merrily between them, and the girl frequently nudged her forehead into Ludwig's shoulder to draw his attention. When he looked down at her, she turned her head up and they whispered to each other in quiet tones, and the second thing that Alfred noticed was how _close_ their faces were; cheeks brushing and noses bumping, and every time that Ludwig drew back, the girl gave a beaming smile and put her head back down on his shoulder. Ludwig lowered his chin, perching the sharp angle of his jaw right on the top of her hair.

They stood there, like it was nothing.

Touching Ludwig like _that_.

It hit Alfred then like a fuckin' _rock_ :

Jealousy.

It came rushing up within his chest before he had even fully comprehended the sight, a burning rush of acid that made his head hurt in its ferocity, and, goddamn, jealousy burned almost as much as hate did. Almost. He couldn't say why, exactly. The first time he had seen them together, nothing about it had bothered him. Ludwig had held her on his arm, and she had been gripping him just as tightly, yet that hadn't irritated him.

Yeah, but that had been different—Ludwig hadn't been his friend then. He was now. _His_ friend.

Possessiveness, alright. Ludwig was his.

Although Matthew was in tow and Ludwig must have spotted him by now, Alfred kept still where he stood, and felt torn. _Ludwig_ wasn't supposed to bring anyone. Ludwig was supposed to wait for _him_. Ludwig's world was supposed to revolve around him. Selfish, maybe, but that was what he wanted. The thought of being anything less than first in Ludwig's mind was painful.

Seeing Ludwig _nuzzling_ (that word was even worse than the sight somehow) someone else was pretty damn awful.

Felt like the world was ending when Ludwig touched someone else.

Maybe what he felt then was betrayal, or a great sense of offense. He was the only one that should have been that close to Ludwig. She was intruding very much into his borders, and Alfred wasn't too keen on it. If she hadn't been a girl, he might have made a scene. Instead, ruffled and threatened, Alfred lifted up his chin, and had absolutely every intention of stalking right by them, until the pretty girl on Ludwig's arm saw him, and cried, with an eager wave, "Hello! Hi, Alfred!"

Oh. Shit.

He tried to scuttle on by, pretending that he hadn't heard, and surely Ludwig was furrowing his brow. And he might have successfully bolted by, if damn Matthew hadn't dug his heels into the pavement, bringing them both to a grinding halt. Looking over, he said, "Alfred, someone's calling you! Hey, isn't that your _friend_? Where are you going?"

His friend.

Stuck.

Matthew made it worse by giving him another one those godawful leers, adding, rather coyly, "Where are you going, Alfred? What, was he not supposed to bring anyone? Did he ruin it? Don't be mad, Alfred, look, they're calling ya."

Goddammit. Goddammit. Fuckin' Matthew.

With a great breath, Alfred looked over. Didn't have a choice.

Ludwig's eyes locked onto his own immediately, as the girl clung to his arm with one hand and waved energetically with the other.

"Alfred, over here!"

Well, she sure had remembered his name.

Distaste.

Ludwig didn't say a word. Just looked at him. Maybe with a little curiously, and it was very possible that his tilted head and quirked brow were asking, 'What, you don't want to talk to me today?'

Alfred saw, then.

Saw Ludwig. Saw that look, that stance, that light, and noticed immediately that Ludwig was bright again, as much as he ever had been before.

The dimness had gone.

And just like that, his irritation vanished. He couldn't really remember why he'd been mad in the first place, and started wandering over as if drawn by a rope, Matthew hot on his heels.

Ludwig hadn't done anything wrong. Still, though. Sure wished he'd let go of that girl. Seeing Ludwig with her like that stung his throat as much as a cough.

As he crossed the street, he was already thinking of ways to make it clear to her that she was on the wrong side of the fence, and it would be in her best interest to keep her hands to herself, adorable as she was or no. The girl seemed happy enough, oblivious to Alfred's discomfort, and addressed him as soon as he was standing before them, looking him up and down in a strange manner he couldn't really place.

Alarmingly like Matthew looked at him, come to think.

Jesus, what was with everyone lately? Everyone kept staring at him like he was a damn alien or somethin'. Even this girl he didn't know seemed far too in tune with something he still couldn't figure out.

"See?" she suddenly said, rather eagerly, "I told you I'd bring him out more."

Ludwig didn't crack a smile, but might have twitched his head a little. Well—she didn't need to know that Alfred had already been bringing Ludwig out quite well on his own before that.

His agitation with her was gone as much as it was with Ludwig, just seeing her stupid smile, and Ludwig's brightness. After that dullness the past few days, seeing him back up was worth anything, even her presence. If she was the reason that Ludwig had lit back up, then he couldn't begrudge her anything at all.

The lamp had come back on in full force.

Ludwig wasn't wearing grey today; rather, he was wearing red.

Hadn't ever wore red before. Alfred was rather stupefied again, but this time by the sight of Ludwig rather than the sight of the girl. Pale as Ludwig was, that bright red against his skin was just as about as eye-catching as anything ever could be, as far as Alfred was concerned. Certainly made his hair and eyes stand out.

Forgot the damn girl was even there, for a second, as hard as he found himself ogling Ludwig then.

Ah. Anyway, she didn't mean anything by it. She just clung to Ludwig's arm because they were friends, as much as Francis liked to put an arm over Alfred's shoulder. That was all. Nothing more, nothing less.

Friends.

Not really fair to be irritated at Ludwig for it.

...actually, not really fair to be irritated at all. Ludwig was perfectly entitled to a life that didn't involve Alfred, but that was still rather hard to swallow. Because Ludwig was _his_ friend. But, as it was now, she hardly seemed a threat, because even though she was on Ludwig's arm, in was at him that Ludwig was staring.

She wasn't a threat.

So he just loosened his shoulders and chest, stopped pouting, and met Ludwig's gaze to send him a bright smile. Might have been more like a stupid grin, because Ludwig's pale brow lifted by a fraction. No smile, though. Ludwig seemed to think a straight-face in company was polite and correct. Another thing for Alfred to add onto his 'Ludwig' list; making the weirdo smile in front of friends. Getting him to realize that it wasn't exactly abnormal to actually show human emotions in front of other humans. At least not in this city.

Alfred finally opened his mouth and said, "Hi," and Ludwig grunted back an equally lame greeting.

"Hey."

Alfred paid just enough attention in that instant to see that Matthew's eyes were glued firmly on the girl, and the stare was mutual. Her eyes were bright and her smile was ever wider. Huh; hadn't known _that_ was possible. Matthew shifted his weight back and forth as the girl smiled at him, twirling her hair restlessly between her fingers as Alfred tried to engage Ludwig. Matthew was shy, always had been, and when she sent him friendly glances, he quickly averted his own gaze down to his feet for a mortified second before looking right back up, as if he just couldn't help himself.

And, well, that just seemed to encourage the girl all the more.

She seemed suited to the shy guys. She had gone after Ludwig, hadn't she, even knowing that he was silent and awkward. Alfred was glad, at least, that something was finally able to distract smug Matthew and shut him the hell up for a minute.

Alfred would have paid a little more attention to them, honestly, if Ludwig hadn't looked so...

Well.

He couldn't really think of anything that didn't sound lame. He was no wordsmith, not by any means, and it felt silly and kind of weird, but somehow the word 'beautiful' kept popping into his head.

Maybe not so weird, he reassured himself. The girl Ludwig brought was beautiful, sure, and that would have been easy to say aloud, so why would it be odd to attach the same adjective to Ludwig? Handsome, although it sounded masculine, was used to describe women, too, wasn't it?

Beautiful meant something that was exceedingly pleasing to your eyes, after all, and Ludwig fit that description. A painting could be beautiful, a dog could be beautiful, hell, a fuckin' sofa could be beautiful, so it shouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary to call another male beautiful.

Yet, still, it was something he never would have said in front of his father, and would never have said in front of Matthew or even Francis. The thought of suddenly opening his mouth and saying to someone, 'Gosh, Ludwig sure is beautiful,' sounded so strange.

Kind of wrong, in a way.

All the same, whether he could say it aloud or not, Ludwig was beautiful.

He looked better now than Alfred had ever seen him, and it hadn't even been one damn day since they had parted ways last. Every time he looked up, it seemed, Ludwig just came across as better and better. Brighter. Healthier. The circles under his eyes were steadily disappearing. Hardly visible now. He was as pale as he had been the day he had fallen there on the dirty street, but Alfred was realizing that that was just the shade of Ludwig's skin, not the shade of sickness. His eyes were alert and focused, intent and sharp. Still filling out, and now his clothes were fitting almost quite normally. Still lean and rather willowy in a muscular way, but, as much as his skin, that was just Ludwig. A bright, ethereal being, if Alfred had ever seen one, and 'pleasing to the eyes' suddenly seemed like a grave understatement—

"I'm Felicia."

He woke up a little, and saw that the girl—Felicia—had pounced on Matthew.

He had been sidetracked again. Like always. Ludwig had that effect on him, certainly.

The last thing he heard was Felicia asking, brightly, "What's your name?" and then he left Matthew in her care and indulged himself completely in Ludwig. A little outside interaction would be good for Matthew.

Anyway, he realized that gawking at Ludwig had made him puff out a little without him being in control of it. His feet had splayed and his shoulders had squared up, chest thrust out and head held high. Showboating, as Matthew had always called it. Felt like a peacock for a minute there, puffed and splayed and strutting as he was, and maybe Ludwig had noticed, because he was suddenly shifting his weight back and forth in what coulda been anxiety.

Thinkin' that Alfred was a weirdo, no doubt. Well! He was, and carried on quite easily.

"Been alright?" he asked, and Ludwig nodded his head.

Always the same answer, whenever he asked.

"You?"

Alfred's turn to nod.

"Yeah. I've been stayin' with my uncle a lot. Matt, too, but..."

He wanted to say, 'But I'd rather stay with you.' Too embarrassed, and instead he could only managed a lopsided smile and squinted eyes.

Wanted Ludwig to invite him, rather than him imposing himself.

Ludwig suddenly looked almost as awkward when he muttered, clumsily, "Well. If they...ever get sick of you, you know, I'm..." He trailed off, seemingly humiliated, but Alfred wasn't so dumb that he hadn't gotten the message.

Everything he had waited for all these weeks; an open-ended offer.

If he had been strutting before, it was amplified tenfold at Ludwig's words, and suddenly his chest had expanded so much that he might have toppled over at any minute. He had fanned his feathers so far out by now that they may as well have been smackin' Ludwig in the face.

Ludwig just stood there, though, lifting and lowering his head, squinting in the sunlight and looking so ridiculously beautiful that Alfred was pretty sure his mind was one more puff from shutting down altogether.

Somehow, he said, too eagerly, "They do look like they get tired of me. After a while."

Shuffling and shifting.

Both thinking the same thing, no doubt, but both equally frightened of actually saying it.

Finally, Alfred lifted up his chin a little, and tried, "Well, you know, if you ever need some company, or anything. Or, you—if you need help or something, I mean, I don't mind splittin' bills or nothin'."

Ludwig gave a stiff, strangled, "Mm."

Not quite as enthusiastic as Alfred had hoped for, but not as bad as it could have been. Ludwig coulda said, 'Hell no!'

They stood on even ground. The staircase had turned into a hallway. The door sure seemed far away, though, even though it was in sight. Sometimes, like right now, Alfred looked at Ludwig and realized that he didn't know what he wanted anymore. He had fought for this friendship. He had it now. Couldn't say why he still felt so unsatisfied. Never happy.

Had everything and still wanted more.

"Uh-huh."

Alfred finally managed to rip his gaze away from Ludwig and look back around, he realized that Matthew looked a little...

"Uh-huh."

Dazed.

Felicia was blabbering away to him, and he bobbed his head up and down dumbly with a distant, 'Uh-huh'. She was speaking so fast that Alfred didn't catch most of what she said, but Matthew seemed quite intent on hanging upon every word. Every so often she leaned forward and touched his arm in her friendly manner, and with every brush Matthew's face lit up like fire.

Ha.

He should never have been jealous.

She was as harmless as Matthew was. Each of them gentle and quirky in their own way. She sure did talk a lot, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and Matthew was a good enough listener.

Ludwig seemed as interested in them as Alfred was, and kept his eyes on Felicia as she kept on reaching out and touching Matthew's shirt. Maybe he looked a little subdued, then, as if her sudden happiness were calming.

What was supposed to be 'their' time on the block had somehow turned into an opportunity for the ones they had brought along. Alfred couldn't say that he was disappointed. Ludwig was always around. Matthew didn't get out enough. A worthy sacrifice of his time, he supposed.

And as soon as the hour grew late, as soon as they said goodbye, as soon as they parted ways, the second that they were out of earshot, Matthew leaned in to Alfred's side, and asked, somewhat breathlessly, "Say, who was that girl? Is she a friend of yours, too?"

Alfred smiled.

"Maybe. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're looking for a date!"

Matthew, still so dazed, just gave a strange, crooked smile.

"A date?" he repeated, breathlessly. "You think so? I don't know—gosh, she sure is pretty, isn't she? Do you see her a lot?"

Alfred shook his head to himself, clapped Matthew on the back, and, just like that, it was suddenly Matthew who was puffing out.

Alfred remembered his own thought from earlier.

'Gosh, Ludwig sure is beautiful!'

That spacey look stayed on Matthew's face for the rest of the day.

Somehow, someway, it was that dumb look on Matthew's face that made something click up in Alfred's head. Because he had looked at himself in the mirror many times nowadays, and had seen himself with that same look. Just hadn't ever been able to figure it out.

In love.

It had been obvious with Matthew, because Felicia was a woman, and that was fairly normal. Figuring out his own dumb grin had been considerably harder, but when he put them side by side like that it was actually pretty easy to figure out.

Well!

So what? Ludwig wasn't a girl, but damn it all if he didn't make Alfred feel like he was fumbling around in the clouds. What was the difference, anyway? Francis had seen that stupid smile on his face a long time ago and had assumed that Alfred had found a girl, so the effect was obviously the same.

The way everyone kept telling him to be 'careful'. That had to be why. They had seen that Ludwig turned him into the same incoherent mess that Felicia turned Matthew into. Maybe that wasn't normal, maybe that wasn't right in a way, but normal wasn't really anything he had ever striven to be. Right was only what you made it. Everyone had different interpretations of what was _right_.

Matthew went on his own way, and Alfred crept into Francis' house, slunk into the room he had usurped, and headed straight for the mirror. He stood there, looked at his reflection, and finally admitted it.

He admitted it.

He was in love with Ludwig.

Not as a friend. Not as a brother. Not as a cure for a guilty conscience.

He was in love.

And, by god, if he had to, then he'd break down every obstacle that stood between them, his old man included, the city if need be. He'd stand in the middle of the street, shout aloud, 'I am in love with Ludwig!' if that was what it took, and he'd charge through hell itself to make sure that Ludwig knew. To find out if Ludwig felt the same, and, if so, if he could get Ludwig to admit it, too.

Love.

If the world had a problem with it, then he'd just build a new world, even if only in his head. Nobody's business, anyway. Nothing that anyone else needed to know, although he'd certainly give it to 'em straight, if that was what they wanted.

His father hardly even seemed like a concern worth dwelling on. Let the old man think what he wanted. The world could go on without him. All he needed was Ludwig.

He was in love.

You and him, they said, and he could see now that they were right. Maybe that was what Matthew had wanted him to figure out. Maybe that was what Francis had been alluding to. Maybe that was the old man was so terrified of.

You and him. Had been all along.

Now, it was him and Ludwig, and Ludwig was beautiful.

Well, then! Looked like the only thing left to do now was to roll up his sleeves, square his shoulders, and start the romancing. Well; for Ludwig's benefit only. Alfred didn't need any damn romancing, because, in his mind, Ludwig already belonged to him, one way or another.

But it might have been a little polite to let Ludwig know.

Sure hoped Ludwig was ready, because he was going to be in for it.

Time to woo.


	16. Trau, Schau, Wem!

**Chapter 16**

**Trau, Schau, Wem!**

Alfred was acting...

Weird.

_Really_ weird.

Rather, he should say, Alfred was acting weirder than usual. These past few weeks, Alfred had just been a little off. Alfred was kind of acting like... Well. The closest thing that Ludwig's confused mind could really even compare it to was something like that day that he, in a fit of chivalry, had taken the bags out of Felicia's arms.

Kinda felt like that. Only _weird._

It wasn't necessarily Alfred's fault that it came off that way. Probably more of an instance of Ludwig being alarmed, in a way, that Alfred felt the need to suddenly be chivalrous to _him._ Not alarmed because he didn't like it, because he absolutely did , but alarmed because Alfred was no doubt just being his oddball self, and being completely unaware that every move he made was steadily driving Ludwig insane.

Torture, absolute torture, to have Alfred circling him like that and not even being able to at least pull a Felicia and hug him.

_Oh_. Misery.

He just wanted Alfred to feel the way he did. Made it worse, the way Alfred was suddenly acting. Things had been going alright, too. He had finally started getting into his pace around Alfred. Had started managing his feelings. Had started settling into acceptance. He had started to accept that he and Alfred were friends, and that was all. He had started settling. He looked at Alfred, pushed down that awful gnawing in his stomach, took a breath, and said, 'This is enough.' It had been enough. He had accepted it.

In fact, before Alfred's sudden burst of absolute weirdness, only one thing had changed up his routine at all; he finally found a job.

Actually, he hadn't found it; Antonio, of all people, had.

In one of the little offices near where Antonio went to class. Nothing big. All he did was clean things up, really, putting papers in order here and there, filing things by number. Didn't even have to talk to anyone. Just sit there and sort papers. They made it simple enough to where even his less-than-fluent English could get by easily. Hell, Antonio probably could have done it. Dirt pay, yeah, for that, less than he had made at the bakery, but better than nothing at all. Enough to get by, if only barely.

He'd take it. He'd have taken anything, then, anything at all.

In some way, he had almost been terrified to leave that shop, and get back out from under protective wings and into the real world. To fend for himself again, to be thrust back into a reality that hadn't ever really been so kind to him. Had to do it, though, because he had long overstayed his welcome there with that couple. They still sent Ludwig off with hugs, though, and pats on his back, even after he had imposed upon them for so long. Words of encouragement.

In the end, it wasn't so bad. It was always hard to change, sure, hard to move on, hard to start something new, but somehow Ludwig had found himself settling in quite quickly. To be perfectly honest, he felt like he could do anything, like he could take on anything, when Alfred was around. If it hadn't been for Alfred, it would have been so much harder to get himself moving. Wouldn't have admitted that once, but it was easy to address now.

Alfred had gotten him back up on his feet, had stood him upright, so the least he could do was to give credit. Ludwig owed him that and more.

Alfred.

Half the time at work Ludwig just stared blankly over the top of papers and daydreamed about Alfred. Not as professional as he liked to be, but Alfred seemed to have the uncanny ability to make him crazy. Felt lovesick all the time, despite his efforts.

Lovesick.

How strange. Hadn't once in his dull life thought he would ever feel this way, and least of all for a man like Alfred.

Alfred's fault, though, the way he was acting now. Suddenly, a new job seemed like the least of his worries. Not when he was fairly certain that Alfred was trying to murder him via heart-attack. Felt like Alfred might have wanted him dead, alright. What else could it be?

He had settled.

Now he was shaken up again, because Alfred was acting _weird_. He had _settled_ , and Alfred had to go and knock him over again. Couldn't figure out that insane man. Couldn't understand him at all. Alfred was crazy.

It had started out rather benignly, all things considered.

Alfred didn't bring his friend over anymore, and Ludwig had been content with that, until then, anyway.

One day, when Alfred came over, he had just been smiling a little differently than he usually did. A bit more coyly, perhaps, and when Ludwig had pulled on his boots and closed the door behind him, Alfred had bolted forward and jumped down the steps and stared back up at Ludwig expectantly. Ludwig had just watched him patiently, as he always did when Alfred was being a little eccentric, but maybe he should have made a break for it then; Alfred was up to something.

Could see it, just in that smile.

Alfred held out a hand then, and Ludwig had been so _stunned_ that all he could do was stare at it blankly for a good minute, and then turn wide eyes up to Alfred's.

What?

Alfred didn't flinch under his gaze, and kept on smiling in that strange manner, lifting the hand in the air to show that he intended for Ludwig to take it. No shame, that man. No sense of discretion. And Ludwig, looking about as if someone were playing a prank on him, had finally realized what Alfred wanted.

Oh.

_God_.

The burn on his face was obvious, the panic in his chest palpable, the hammering of his heart audible, and so he didn't know _why_ he had reached out, and gripped Alfred's hand within his own. Why he let Alfred talk him into these strange things. Why he always folded when Alfred was smiling at him. One of the most terrifying moments of his life, just taking Alfred's hand while in full public view, even though there was hardly anyone in the street. Wasn't that man scared of anything? Ludwig had wished then that Alfred's friend had been there, if only to save him from Alfred.

Anxiety.

Alfred's hand felt too warm.

Alfred walked him quite eagerly down the dreadful steps (all three of them—what a _gentleman_ ), and when Ludwig was on the sidewalk, Alfred actually seemed as if he had accomplished something quite grand. As if he had been plotting that for a while and was quite pleased with himself that everything had gone according to plan.

So weird. Alfred was so weird.

It took a long time for him to let go of Ludwig's hand, however, once they were on the sidewalk, and Ludwig didn't really tug back to speed it up. Warmth.

He wished...

Nope. Wasn't gonna happen. Couldn't. Never would have worked.

Still, though, as Alfred fanned out proudly and started walking along, leading Ludwig as he always did, Ludwig wished that he could have been able to say, just once, 'You know, I think I'm a little bit in love with you.'

Could only ever say that up in his head.

Regret. Wished he could have said it. Not brave enough.

Alfred, despite Ludwig's fumbling, seemed brighter than ever. Bolder, too. More audacious. More intrepid. Looking back on it, Ludwig shouldn't have been terrified by that simple hand-grab, because apparently Alfred had plenty more in store, each of it more obvious than the last.

Obvious, maybe, to someone who wasn't Ludwig.

He couldn't really get past the dazzle of Alfred to figure out the motive for all of this. Couldn't see the stars when the moon was full, and Ludwig couldn't stop being blinded by Alfred long enough to think about why he was acting this way.

Alfred was just Alfred. Just the way he was.

Anyway, the motive seemed less than pressing when Alfred kept on thinking, kept plotting, kept acting. As if Alfred couldn't get any worse, and yet somehow, Ludwig still found himself all the more horrified by what Alfred was willing to do. The things Alfred came up with.

They were walking a few days later when it started raining, again, and Ludwig only had time to lift up his head and look at the sky before a flash of movement startled him. A whiff of cologne and leather, a heaviness on his shoulders, and it was one of the most mortifying and simultaneously gratifying moments of his life when Ludwig looked back down to see that Alfred had slung his ugly jacket over Ludwig's shoulders with a ridiculous, pompous flourish.

Guess he couldn't wait for Ludwig to accept it willingly and had decided to make Ludwig's mind up for him.

And Ludwig could have just _died_.

Christ almighty, he stumbled mid-step and had to catch himself on the side of a shop, he was so scandalized. Coulda keeled over dead, he swore it, was a breath away from a coronary.

Alfred was tryin' to _kill_ him, he was sure of it, and it had been absolutely terrifying, looking over both shoulders and praying that people hadn't stopped in the street to stare at them. That no one was _staring_ at him. That was his greatest fear, that people would stop and stare at him because of Alfred, because they could see it, could see the way Ludwig felt.

This time, though, his fear was unwarranted.

A bit of luck; the rain was coming down so fast that people had started speeding up, and no one had seemed to notice Alfred's gesture. Hardly made his heart slow down any, though, as the warmth of the jacket permeated his shirt.

The smell of the jacket was something he realized he loved, though he'd never admit that aloud; just the smell of Alfred, as it was. Loved everything about it, even the sometimes overwhelming scent of gasoline and motor-oil. Comforting, in a way, because it was familiar.

Beyond the smell, something else.

Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

An odd sense of security, a feeling of safety, and that was strange. Felt as if, in some way, he were being protected, even if that didn't make too much sense. Couldn't say why, if it was the smell or the feel or the notion itself, but Ludwig had straightened up afterwards, looked down at his feet thoughtfully, and had realized that he felt oddly... _safe_.

Odd.

His entire life had been spent being vulnerable and always on luck's bad side. Alone. In bad circumstances. Being forced into positions that he hadn't been prepared for. Having the glass shatter beneath him the very second he had finally settled.

Felt so strange to feel _safe_ , for once, after so long. On this side. To feel as if he could relax, because someone was watching over him. Had only ever felt like that for such a short period of time, before the war had started. Gone too soon, and it hadn't ever come back. He'd always had to rely on himself.

That feeling was more than intoxicating, and he hadn't really noticed that he had slumped a little, letting his shoulders and head fall loose. Tension, fleeing. Couldn't even remember the last time every muscle hadn't been taut.

Safe.

Wasn't that what everyone wanted, to feel safe? The reason cats kneaded their paws, why dogs loved their owners, why kids clung to their mother's skirts. Why men burrowed their faces in women's hair. To feel safe. Why people hugged. Why some people curled up into a ball when they slept. Why some people carried good-luck charms.

That jacket over his shoulders, that weight, that warmth, that smell—that made _him_ feel safe. Safe. Astounding. Had forgotten what that felt like, and to think it could have been brought up like that out of nowhere by such a simple gesture.

And Alfred just beamed over at him like all was right in the world, eyes raking him up and down, and then he said, "I knew my jacket would look good on ya."

Oh. _Torture_. Alfred was making him crazy. Wanted to cry.

Frustration.

Alfred had only wanted to keep him from getting soaked; hadn't known that it would make Ludwig feel that way.

Felt ever harder to go on. To push forward. If Alfred kept this up, Ludwig was gonna crack and fall to his knees and cry, pitifully, ' _Please_ stop, _please_ stop, because I'm in love with you and you're making my life miserable by treating me this way. Go back to being a jerk, why don't you, because then I can hate you again and I won't wanna beat my head into a wall anymore.'

Why did Alfred have to be like that?

If Alfred were a normal human being, it would have been so much easier for Ludwig to keep his emotions in check, but it was as if Alfred was determined to ruin him in every way possible. Didn't he get it? Didn't he see that he was turning Ludwig into a veritable puddle of frazzled nerves? Knock it off, already.

Seemed to intensify every day.

When Alfred walked him home now, he swept himself up the steps in a dramatic fashion, extended his hand just as he did when they set out, and when Ludwig was up the steps beside of him, Alfred reached out to open the door, and he wouldn't budge an inch until Ludwig humored him and stepped though it.

These walks were starting to kill him slowly.

And speaking of walking...

Alfred had started _walking_ differently, too, and when they went on their long strolls across the city, Ludwig had noticed that Alfred had started pushing Ludwig off to the side that was away from the street. If they were jostled in the crowd and Ludwig somehow wound up on Alfred's left, he quickly dodged around and put Ludwig back on the right, away from the street. On the way back, if they used the same side, Alfred would shove Ludwig to the left, away from the street.

Always away from the street.

Didn't get it; was Alfred afraid some random taxi was gonna come over the sidewalk and run him over? He had bad luck, yeah, but that seemed a bit outrageous, even for him.

Maybe that was exactly what Alfred was avoiding, come to think, because Alfred was always puffed out quite proudly whenever he maneuvered Ludwig around, as if he were really doing something chivalrous. His shoulders were held up and back as he walked, chest thrust forward and his head high and eyes always scanning the streets, and Ludwig couldn't really figure out what his issue was.

Looked very much like a man on a mission, but Ludwig didn't know what the hell the mission was, unless it was to make Ludwig's life miserable. In that, his mission was a success. Especially when Ludwig happened to look over from time to time, at couples walking along, and noticed that almost all of the men had put their girls over on the side that was away from the street.

Mortification.

Kinda wished a car _would_ run him over, once he realized that Alfred was doing that to him, possibly without even knowing it. Alfred might not have even been aware that he was suddenly doing these odd little things. Might have just been the baser side of him, the one that presumably all men had, and he was just acting out of instinct.

...why? For _him_? Didn't get it.

Still, Ludwig didn't say a word and didn't struggle, because somehow that manner of walking also brought out a little bit of that sense of security. Not as strong as the jacket had, but there under the surface all the same.

Just waiting for it to rain again, honestly.

In the meantime, Alfred kept on walking with wide strides and sure steps.

Sure did make Ludwig wonder all the more, though. And that was terrible. All of that maddening wondering. Wondering why Alfred was doing this, when he hadn't before. Why now? What had changed? Had Ludwig done or said something without realizing it that had triggered something within Alfred? Maybe he had been vulnerable one day without knowing it and Alfred had seen it and was acting accordingly.

If Alfred saw someone or something he didn't like on these walks, he would puff himself out a little as he was prone to do, and quickly either push Ludwig closer to the buildings or change street entirely. If someone gave them a second glance at their odd behavior, Alfred seemed quite irritated. Aggressive and agitated.

_Threatened_ , almost.

Once, some guy that knew Alfred saw them walking, and stopped to stare at them. Maybe not because of 'them' as it was, so much as Ludwig. Must have recognized Ludwig, and knew that Alfred was the last person that should have been walking with him. When Ludwig's cheeks burned from humiliation, knowing that the guy saw someone who didn't belong there, he didn't even have time to hide his face and run; Alfred had already been set off.

Whirling around quite furiously (after shoving Ludwig rather skillfully behind him with one arm), Alfred had stomped forward two paces, fists clenched at his sides, and had cried, over the noise of the busy street, "You got a problem, man?"

Ludwig gawked from behind, as Alfred was puffed out as much as he could possibly go, bristling and twitching.

The guy, clearly taken aback as much as Ludwig was, quickly conceded, and took a step back.

"No problem, Alfred."

Couldn't say Ludwig blamed him. He wouldn't really have wanted to pick a fight with broad Alfred, either. Especially when he looked like _that_.

"Keep walkin', then."

The guy did.

Satisfied, Alfred had turned back around, pushed Ludwig onward a bit forcefully with his shoulder, and kept walking, too.

Sometimes, Ludwig wished that he could have sank down into the sidewalk.

Humiliation.

...maybe a little satisfied, though, that someone staring at them had been put in place. Didn't feel quite so bad that way.

Ludwig looked over at Alfred from time to time, though, and wished he could have said, 'I can take care of myself, you know.'

Didn't, because he was afraid that Alfred's response would be, 'No, you can't. That's why I'm here.'

The way Alfred was acting.

Is was sweet, and it was more than a little charming, but Ludwig kind of wished all the same that Alfred would take him a little more seriously. It was great to feel safe, it really was, but he wanted Alfred to know that he didn't really need it.

It would have been one thing if Alfred was acting that way because he just liked to do so, but Ludwig's terrible self-consciousness kept on trying to convince him that Alfred was doing all of that because he really thought that Ludwig couldn't do anything on his own. After all these years, after everything Alfred had seen, that maybe Alfred had become convinced that Ludwig was incapable of being on his own.

In a way, maybe that would have been accurate.

Couldn't help but worry, though. If Alfred thought he couldn't even take care of himself, then Alfred couldn't respect him, and if Alfred couldn't respect him, then how could Alfred ever have felt anything more for him?

Or maybe he was reading way too much into it. Letting his terrible sense of self-confidence try to undermine a good thing. Oh. His head hurt all the time. Sometimes, the way Alfred acted, it actually made him start wondering if maybe...

Nah. Couldn't be.

...could it?

Alfred wasn't like him, surely not, not a guy like that. What were the chances? Alfred wasn't like that. Always being admired by women as he was; Alfred wasn't like that. And yet, somehow, Ludwig still found himself _wondering_ , because Alfred was acting so out of it, so boldly, so forcefully, and with such apparent determination.

False hope was the worst.

Maybe Felicia was right. Maybe he should tell Alfred, if only to figure it out once and for all, if only to force Alfred to state his position, so that Ludwig wouldn't have to _wonder_ anymore. Even if Alfred looked at him differently afterwards, at least Ludwig would know.

His head was muddled all the time.

Alfred was so bold and relentless now that Ludwig couldn't even distinguish what type of behavior Alfred reserved only for him. Surely Alfred didn't pull this with his other friend, did he? Did Alfred do this for anyone else? Wished he could have asked.

In the meanwhile, all Ludwig could really do was go along for the ride, because Alfred was too stubborn and proud to accept refusal or disinterest.

One Sunday morning, there was a knock on the door, and when Ludwig opened it, there was Alfred, as always.

Ludwig stopped short that time, though.

Alfred.

Or, at least, he was fairly _certain_ it was Alfred. Same face. Same jacket. Some smell. Same everything, except...

Ludwig stood stark still, tilted his head, and then asked, rather bluntly, "What did you do to your hair?"

Hadn't even said hello yet.

Alfred alright, but he looked so different, so strange, because he had groomed himself a little differently. Actually, he looked different because he had bothered to groom himself at all. A first. Alfred's messy hair was combed back, slicked and running in a neat line towards the back of his neck, and he had shaved differently, too, leaving a bit more sideburn than he usually did. The shoulders of his jacket had been brushed down a little.

Huh.

Ludwig could only stand there and stare at him, whether it was polite or not, because it was something new.

Alfred sent him a strange look, reaching up automatically to run a hand over his glossy hair, and he just said, "I combed it, is all."

"Oh."

Right.

...why?

Ludwig finally stepped out, Alfred turned to face him, and Ludwig didn't miss the shifting of his shoulders. Anxious, maybe, that he looked stupid. Alfred prided himself more than anything on, well, _himself_ , and any blow to his ego was sure to be painful.

"What?" he finally asked, with a rather strained smile, "Does it look dumb? Thought I'd try something new. Does it look stupid?"

"No," Ludwig said, immediately, so as not to hurt Alfred's feelings, "I just haven't ever seen you comb it like that." Alfred smiled then, far too brightly, and Ludwig couldn't say what unholiness possessed him to add, lowly, "It looks nice."

Well. It did look nice.

Alfred usually did no matter what, come to think, but maybe this time he could say for certain that Alfred was more handsome than usual. Seeing Alfred done up like the other greasers was certainly a sigh to behold. Not an unpleasant one, either, so when Alfred reached out suddenly and lifted his hand, as always, Ludwig just took it without a word and tried his damn best not to let his face crack.

Smiling was tempting nowadays, as Alfred grew ever quirkier.

Honestly, he wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be able to keep his composure. Some days, it felt alarmingly like he was ready to throw himself at Alfred's feet and start blubbering away about how much he couldn't stand being _apart_ from him for even five damn minutes.

Pitiful.

Couldn't stand it when Alfred wasn't _there_.

Sundays had suddenly became his favorite day of the week, because it was a day that was spent entirely with Alfred. Sometimes they walked around the city, sometimes they sat down at the harbor, and sometimes Ludwig opened the door, and they just stayed in his house and talked. Loved every second that Alfred was around.

Eventually, though, with the way Alfred had been flailing around, it was only a matter of time before he bumped into Antonio.

Inevitable.

It had been the fourth time that Alfred had come inside his home when it had happened.

A conversation in the kitchen (in which Alfred had been doing all the talking, following Ludwig with every step he took and sometimes reaching out to poke him if he felt Ludwig wasn't paying enough attention), and then, suddenly, the jingle of the lock.

Ludwig and Alfred had looked over at the same time, and Ludwig had been disappointed, more than anything. Hadn't ever thought seeing Antonio would be disappointing, but there it was. Having time with Alfred interrupted.

When Antonio stepped inside, kneeling down to remove his shoes, it was Ludwig who came out first, trying very hard to keep Alfred inside of the kitchen and out of Antonio's sight. Felt like a kid, suddenly, that knew he was doing something wrong. Could only keep someone like Alfred hidden for so long though, and when Antonio looked up, smiled, and said, "Hey," Alfred had suddenly appeared behind Ludwig.

Just like that, Antonio's smile fell.

An immediate square off, in which neither one of them may have been exactly certain why they were squaring off in the first place. Antonio leapt straight upright, one shoe still hanging on his foot, and Alfred had thrust out his legs.

A hard, smoldering glare between them.

Ludwig really just felt like rolling his eyes and wandering off in exasperation. Let them do whatever they wanted to each other. Maybe if they hit each other enough they'd get it out of their systems and get over it.

Didn't have the heart for either of them to get hurt, though, and both had pretty quick triggers, so Ludwig stood there, and just watched.

A long, sharp, exceedingly distasteful stare between Alfred and Antonio, and Ludwig could see that Alfred's chest had puffed out and that his shoulders had squared. That his feet had splayed out and changed position a little so that he was facing Antonio down, even as his head was turned in Ludwig's direction. Looked like a damn blowfish, puffing up because he was threatened.

Antonio was hardly better, and seemed to be expanding just as rapidly.

Two big egos full of hot air.

Ludwig just stood there, watching, and kinda hoped that maybe Antonio would concede and leave. A terrible thought, because he loved Antonio, but there that was, too. He'd rather Alfred stayed. But Antonio didn't, kicking off his other shoe quickly and then standing his ground so firmly that Ludwig wondered if maybe he'd stepped in some superglue.

Just as stubborn, Alfred stayed put.

They didn't speak to each other, because they couldn't, but the glare said everything they were clearly thinking.

Ludwig waited. Wished he could have gotten them to sit down with each other.

Neither of them conceded, as it turned out, and they were still staring at each other, fanned out and aggressive, when Ludwig saw no choice but to step in between them and diffuse the situation before one of them lunged at the other.

Hate to see Alfred's handsome face get messed up by Antonio.

...ah. Pitiful.

In that awful tension, in that silence, Ludwig reached out, grabbed a handful of Alfred's jacket, and yanked him towards the door. Antonio was still an obstacle, but moved aside quickly enough when Ludwig gave him a stern look. Antonio may have moved, but Alfred didn't really want to, digging his heels into the floor as they passed.

Another glare.

Ludwig had to put his other hand forward and grab hold just to get Alfred moving again.

Big oaf.

Antonio turned to the side and followed them to the door, still making himself appear bigger than he was, watching every move that Alfred made so intently that Ludwig was sure he was going to set Alfred on fire. And Ludwig thought, when he pushed Alfred through the door, grabbing Alfred's boots at the last second, that maybe Alfred looked a little hurt.

A little jealous.

Ludwig could only assume that he was upset that Ludwig hadn't kicked Antonio out instead. Couldn't, not Antonio, not after everything that man had done for him. Could have never put Antonio out.

Even outside, behind the closed door, Alfred was still splayed out and still shifting, his legs apart and shoulders high. Took him a long time to actually reach down and pull on his boots. His eyes didn't leave Ludwig's for a second, even as he tied the laces, and Ludwig actually thought that maybe Alfred was going to have the gall to reprimand him for not shoving Antonio outside instead.

But when Alfred finally opened his mouth, all he said was, "He's still here, huh?"

Well.

"Yeah," Ludwig confirmed, feeling a bit anxious without knowing why. "He comes and goes. Like you."

Alfred still seemed so aggravated. Bristling and unable to keep his hands from clenching and unclenching.

Suddenly, then, Alfred was back upright and staring Ludwig down as hard as he had been Antonio, and Ludwig was perfectly willing to admit that he didn't understand _why_ , but was somehow quite enthralled.

That odd look.

Had Alfred been looking at something else and Ludwig could have been objective about it, he might have been able to realize that Alfred was staring at him in a manner that was very well possessive. Hadn't ever seen that look before, and some dumb part of Ludwig might have actually liked it. Just seeing Alfred riled up like that.

Something wrong with him.

A quick look around, a run of his hand through his hair, and finally, finally, Alfred's puffing started to die down. His shoulders fell, his legs stopped bracing, and his stance slouched a little. Still looked agitated, though, and when he spoke, he was grumbling so lowly that Ludwig could barely hear him at all.

"Wish he'd get the hell outta town. Doesn't he have anywhere else to go? Why's he still comin' 'round?"

The same could be said of Alfred, but Ludwig wasn't quite ready to say so and test that attitude and figure out if Alfred would take some aggression out on him or not. Better just to stay quiet and let him fume it out.

Alfred looked around, finally realized that Antonio wasn't going anywhere that day, and eventually conceded. Must have been hard for a guy like Alfred to concede anything.

"Guess I'll go," Alfred said, in a deep, gruff voice that Ludwig had never heard him use, and when Ludwig just nodded his head, Alfred looked a little confused. Like he wanted to go, and wanted to stay.

Kept on staring at Ludwig with a crinkled brow and pursed lips. Maybe he had wanted Ludwig to cry, in distress, 'No, don't go!'

Hardly.

Alfred would keep on dreamin' if _that_ was what he wanted.

Even if Ludwig didn't want him to go. Really didn't.

When he got nothing else, Alfred reached down, grabbed Ludwig's hand, squeezed it so hard that Ludwig almost winced, and then he turned around to leave. Alfred stomped a little when he walked to the steps, and Ludwig almost smiled when he huffed and stalked off, looking over his shoulder as he did, because seeing Alfred like that was almost, dare he say it, cute.

Kind of.

That proud, egotistical, self-centered jerk, acting like a jealous little kid.

Ludwig watched him go, shaking his head to himself, before he finally gathered the nerve to go back inside and deal with an equally agitated Antonio.

Why was it always him? Bad luck.

When he came back inside and shut the door, Antonio was over at the window, where he had no doubt been watching Alfred stomp away. When he realized Ludwig was back inside, Antonio came back over, and Ludwig could see that even though Alfred had conceded, Antonio was still upset. The second Alfred was out of sight, Antonio usually deflated, and stopped bristling. Usually, but not this time. Seemed so alarmed suddenly. Agitated and irritable.

Even though they weren't in front of each other anymore, Ludwig still felt rather trapped between them. They were both being so _difficult_. He could see Antonio's side of things outright, he really could, but he couldn't figure out why Alfred was still acting so ridiculously aggressive. Antonio hadn't done anything to Alfred.

And Antonio should have been able to put it behind him if Ludwig had.

Antonio's crinkled brow lowered ever farther, and the twist of his mouth indicated his displeasure, and it wasn't long after Alfred had stomped off that Antonio did a little stomping of his own, turning to Ludwig with a stern look.

"Why was he in here? How long has he been coming around? Why would you let him _in_?"

Antonio's irritation and accusation put Ludwig on the defensive, a little, and he found himself shuffling around and trying to mutter excuses. None came out coherently. Just a dumb, broken, "I dunno. I guess he... Well. He came by, a few weeks ago. I just..."

He trailed off, knowing that he couldn't come up with an answer that would have really been good enough for Antonio, and fell still.

Didn't understand why Antonio was looking at him like that.

Silence.

Ludwig was suddenly very interested in his feet, as Antonio kept on bristling.

Wished he would just let it go. And Ludwig wished that he could have tried to explain to Antonio how he felt, so that Antonio would take his sentiments into better consideration whenever Alfred came around. Couldn't stand them hating each other, suddenly. Hadn't mattered before, but the way Alfred was acting now, the way he had been wondering, the way he had almost been feeling a stupid, ridiculous kind of hope...

Didn't want them to hate each other.

It was with obvious distaste that Antonio suddenly asked, quietly, "Did I miss somethin'?"

Antonio, threatened by Alfred's presence, and maybe feeling a little suspicious. Ludwig finally looked back up, and felt a bit anxious suddenly. A little jittery. Couldn't really describe the look on Antonio's face, or the tone of his voice. As if something were _wrong_.

Oh, god. Antonio knew, he could see it right there, in that look. Antonio was suspicious. Antonio was thinking, and he knew. Must have been able to see it there, the way Ludwig felt. Must have noticed, somehow. Must have figured it out.

Nausea.

A long, long stare, and Antonio shifted his weight, suddenly putting a hand in his pocket and looking so uncomfortable. Ludwig thought he could have very well fainted, and knew he had paled horribly as Antonio stared at him. Thinking of what Antonio was going to say. Terrified of Antonio knowing. Telling Felicia had been hard enough, but to tell Antonio, to have Antonio know...

He was beyond scared.

Antonio finally spoke again, whispering, strangely, "So. You two... Ah. That is, you and him...?"

Shifting and restless shuffling.

Ludwig knew what Antonio meant, and somehow, he actually wished that he could say, more than anything, 'Yeah, we are.' Him and Alfred. Instead, he was forced to say, lowly, against the churning in his stomach, "I don't know."

That hurt so much to say. All he really wanted was Alfred, and the way Alfred was acting was confusing him more than anything else.

Antonio's brow flew up, he looked around the room, helplessly, and then it was Antonio who had suddenly found his feet interesting. Antonio wasn't jealous like Alfred was, Ludwig could tell that right off, not threatened that someone was moving in on his friend. Antonio just genuinely didn't _like_ Alfred, and didn't like this situation. At all.

It was very obvious, and Ludwig could feel the cold-sweat breaking out on his brow.

Finally, Antonio looked up, and Ludwig looked down. Couldn't seem to meet Antonio's eyes anymore.

A terrible fear.

What was Antonio thinking?

Ludwig eyeballed the floor for a while, and when he gathered the courage to glance up very quickly through his lashes, he asked, tentatively, "Would that be a...problem?"

Just wanted Antonio to love him as he always had. Didn't want anything to change.

A short hesitation, and then Antonio said, simply, "Yeah."

Shock.

A sharp inhale, and Ludwig felt as if he had been shot. His heart dropped into his feet. His head dropped soon after, and he felt as if the world had stopped spinning. His worst fear, of someone he loved, turning their back on him because something wasn't right with him. Being shunned because he was _wrong_.

Antonio.

Everything slumped, and he knew his face had crumpled. About to collapse.

Didn't last too long.

Before he could start cryin', or whatever his mind had intended to do, Antonio suddenly came forward, maybe realizing that he had caused distress, wrapped arms around Ludwig's neck, yanked his head down into his chest, and was quick to amend, "Yeah, that's a problem, alright, because I always thought you were cute."

Oh, god, god, couldn't think.

Antonio was _hugging_ him, couldn't believe it, couldn't, hugging him like that even though he _knew_ , was so sure that Antonio was going to cast him aside, had looked so startled—

His mind was whirring. Felt faint.

A short, strangled laugh came out of his mouth then, a noise of absolute disbelief, and he heard himself gasp, afterwards, "Please don't hate me, please, you're my best friend, please don't be upset."

Couldn't stand it. Losing Antonio would have killed him.

Antonio said, quickly and quietly, "I'm not— I'm not upset, I'm not, I was just surprised is all, so come on. Don't... I didn't mean to say it like that. I'm sorry."

Dizziness. His chest hurt.

He pressed his face into Antonio's chest, then, struck down by emotion as he was, and when a hand came to rest on his head, he did cry a little. Not that he would admit it, and Antonio pretended it didn't happen at all.

Long minutes of stifling pitiful sobs in Antonio's shirt.

He couldn't say if he cried because he was grateful for Antonio, if he was just so relieved that there was nothing else to do, because he was so scared that this was his natural reaction, or because it _hurt_ to admit that he was in love with a man who was never going to be in love with him.

Saying, 'I don't know.'

Good god, Alfred had ruined him. It had been so many years since he'd cried, and now he found himself doing it quite frequently.

Eventually, Antonio let him go, but only physically; there was still something to explain, and Antonio didn't let him off so easily.

Easily one of the most awful moments of his life, sitting at the kitchen table with a stern Antonio and having to tell him _everything_ , when he hadn't even managed to directly say it aloud to gentler Felicia. Antonio didn't give him a choice in the matter, though, and maybe Ludwig had needed that domineering attitude to finally just say it and be done with it.

Antonio just stared at him the whole time he fumbled his words, and beyond anything, it struck Ludwig that Antonio had looked worried. Worried. Wished that Antonio would have tried to reassure him, as Felicia had, but he didn't. Antonio was more aware of the real world than she was, and seemed worried. Didn't say it aloud, though, perhaps in an effort to save Ludwig's feelings, but he didn't have to; Ludwig could see it, in that line between his eyebrows and the pursing of his lips.

Didn't sleep too well that night, and not because Alfred had made him jittery. Easy enough to feed off of Antonio's silent worry. Fretting.

...at least until Alfred showed his face the next day, anyway, and then it was a little harder to remember why he had been upset at all.

Seeing Alfred always made him feel better, always. No matter what. And that was a good thing, too, because seeing Alfred was suddenly something he was getting a lot of, even more than usual. After that short confrontation with Antonio, Alfred seemed to come by his house every single day, and was quite insistent about being allowed inside.

What could he do?

Alfred was forceful and convincing, so Ludwig always opened the door, whether Antonio was there or not.

Alfred always barged in as quick as he could. Didn't tread farther than the kitchen, though, and was always standing up on his toes and looking over Ludwig's shoulder, lips pursed and eyes blazing behind his glasses. Looking for Antonio. And when Antonio was there, Alfred honed in on him like a wasp, and kept his gaze on Antonio even as he conversed with Ludwig, feet planted firmly on the ground and practically oozing aggression and testosterone from every ]pore. Like a territorial dog, roaming the edge of yard and barking at passersby.

Ugh.

In this instance, the hapless passerby happened to be Antonio, and although Alfred didn't bark at him, he sure was growling. Antonio stayed silent now whenever Alfred was around, for Ludwig's sake more than a newfound affection, and Ludwig was grateful. Musta been hard, though, the way Alfred was glowering at him and curling his lip so much that he was practically snarling.

Antonio looked just as aggressive, and usually buried his face in either a paper or a mug to keep himself from engaging Alfred in any way.

Sometimes, Ludwig wondered if they even knew why they didn't like each other. If they could have come up with a reason, had Ludwig asked. Probably not. No bridges were going to be crossed between them anytime soon, it seemed, and Ludwig didn't mind as long as they were civil to each other.

One day, as Alfred had been glaring at Antonio from over Ludwig, he could see that Antonio seemed to be in a particularly agitated mood. Antonio glowered down into his coffee, and Ludwig glanced back in time to see him opening and closing his mouth, obviously mocking Alfred's words with a furrowed brow, not trying at all to hide his spiteful mimicking.

A glint of exasperation, and Ludwig was quick to grab Alfred's sleeve and walk him outside to make sure that Alfred didn't see.

Alfred was waiting for any excuse at all to jump forward and punch Antonio in the face, and surely the feeling was mutual. Antonio only needed one good reason to drop-kick Alfred to the ground.

Those two.

As soon as they were outside, though, Alfred's mood improved quite a bit, and, for the first time since Alfred and Antonio had crossed paths, Alfred finally decided it was time to go walking again. Ludwig was glad. Even more content when Alfred swept down the steps as if nothing had ever happened. Back to normal then, he guessed.

When Alfred started leading him along, Ludwig found himself glancing upwards.

Clear skies. No chance of rain. Yeah, that figured.

When they started getting farther into the city, when Alfred started making strange turns, it didn't take too long for Ludwig to see where Alfred was leading him.

A pang.

Hadn't been _there_ in a long time, not since...

The old feel of a leash in hand.

Well. Better not to think of that. Anyway, when Central Park was in sight, when the bright green trees were visible beyond the grey of the city, Alfred lifted up his hand, for just a second, and brushed it down the back of Ludwig's arm. Just a flutter, gone as quickly as it had come.

The shiver could very well have been from terror. A good terror, if that made any sense.

Crazy, alright.

Felt more than strange to step into the park at last, but hardly unpleasant. He'd missed the trees. Missed plants. Missed things that weren't steel and iron. Loved it here, and surely Alfred could see it; anyone could have, really. The second his foot hit dirt, everything in him shifted. Felt lighter, looser, happier, and the way he slowed his pace and took smaller steps and raised his head up in happiness would have been immediately obvious.

The park made him happy, even if there wasn't anything other than Alfred walking beside of him.

When he dared a glance over, Alfred's beam had died down into one of those calmer smiles. The ones Alfred gave when he was feeling subdued and probably happy himself. In some way, Ludwig was starting to like those smiles more than the beams. Just the way bold, energetic Alfred's face looked in those moments. Liked the way his brow came up and his eyelids lowered. The way Alfred suddenly looked as if everything were right in the world, no matter what else may have been going on beyond them.

Loved it when Alfred was happy.

They took a trail down through the trees, until Alfred suddenly and randomly settled himself on bench. Ludwig fell still and looked down at him, wanting to walk more but not wanting to leave Alfred, and finally conceded, sitting himself down at Alfred's side. For once, Alfred was rather quiet. Just threw his hands behind his head, splayed his legs out, and gave a sigh. Ludwig looked out at the trees, and felt as subdued as Alfred had looked earlier. He'd missed the park.

They passed in silence, oddly enough, as Alfred seemed content to let him watch the nature before him.

Birds, chattering away up in the branches. Flowers all around. Colors. Bright sky. The smell of dirt and grass and the potent scent of the flowers when the wind blew.

Almost felt sleepy for a while there, swaying along with the breeze, and maybe he could have relaxed a bit more if Alfred weren't looking at him. He knew that Alfred had been staring at him the whole time; he could feel it, out of the corner of his eye.

Just staring.

Suddenly, then, out of nowhere, Alfred had pushed off the bench and leaned in, close enough for Ludwig to smell his cologne over the flowers, and whispered, near his ear, "I can see why you like comin' here so much."

So close. Warmth.

Ludwig, shifting and fidgeting, said, dumbly, "Oh?"

So close, so damn close. Did he always have to be so close?

...kinda wished he'd get closer.

Alfred's crooked smile was a bit leering then, as he nodded his head and said, "Yup! You fit right in here. I can see it now."

Huh?

"How do you mean?" Ludwig asked without thinking, not considering that he may have been falling into another one of sneaky Alfred's traps.

Didn't take long, either, for Alfred to lean back into the bench, throwing his arms behind his head again, and say, "Everything here's so pretty."

A jolt, a lurch of panic, and Ludwig barely managed to turn his head in time before the flush of red had overtaken his face and neck.

What? Pretty? Maybe he had misunderstood that.

Had to have misunderstood. Sometimes, Alfred said things that Ludwig wasn't quite able to grasp, for the speed with which he spoke and that city accent. Sometimes, Ludwig just didn't catch what he said. Must have misunderstood.

...right.

He'd heard the words, all right, but the meaning was out of reach. Alfred was just a weirdo, was all. That was all. Couldn't have meant it the way Ludwig had interpreted it. Nope. But, oh god, never had he wanted to understand more. Hadn't ever wanted to be more right. Just wanted Alfred to have meant that the way he took it. Hadn't ever wanted anything the way he wanted Alfred.

A while later, when the blush had finally receded, Alfred stood up, and extended his hand, offering an invitation to go walking some more. Ludwig took it. Felt a bit surreal for the rest of the day, as Alfred's words rang in his head, over and over again. Couldn't shake it.

But he realized later on that he had been smiling like an idiot the whole while.

When he returned home later on that night, Alfred leaving him at his door with that same old flourish, Ludwig saw that Antonio was on the couch, staring at the television and swaying a foot. If Antonio hadn't been there, and as breathless as he was, Ludwig might have asked Alfred to spend the night. Didn't, not that time, and Alfred went home.

Antonio looked over his shoulder when Ludwig appeared beside him, and smiled. In a good mood now.

Relief.

"How'd it go?" came Antonio's soft voice, and Ludwig wasn't sure if Antonio really wanted to know or if he just felt bad about antagonizing Ludwig earlier.

Didn't matter.

So, Ludwig just said, "Good."

Wonderful. Amazing. Brilliant. Fantastic. Breathtaking. Any of those fit, but Antonio didn't like Alfred, so Ludwig just said, 'Good.'

"Good."

Antonio sat up then, and patted the seat next to him.

Ludwig sat.

No wait at all before Antonio threw an arm around his shoulder and yanked him in, and Ludwig smiled when Antonio sighed a weary, "I'm sorry 'bout earlier. He just...gets on my nerves, I guess. I don't like him comin' around."

"How come?"

Antonio didn't answer right off, but he didn't really need to. Ludwig knew he still held that grudge against Alfred for that day.

Shattering glass. Having let Ludwig down so many times.

Finally, Antonio barked, a bit harshly, "Because he's a fuckin' asshole, and I wish that I could punch him in the face. I wish you'd let me break his damn nose, because I get sick of lookin' at him."

When Ludwig's face fell a little, Antonio was quick to backpedal with a gruff, "Sorry."

The way Alfred made Ludwig feel couldn't ever compare to anything, anything, and so hearing those words hurt.

He sat there, silently, as Antonio appeared to be in thought.

Antonio eventually found an honest answer, and said, if not reluctantly, "Well. Ah, hell. I guess it's not really him, huh? I just worry about his father. I just don't want anything to happen to you, because of this. I can't help but feel like he's trouble, you know?"

Ludwig snorted, despite himself. Alfred sure was trouble. Probably always had been. Sure was getting Ludwig _into_ trouble, anyway, if only in his own mind.

Ludwig felt himself smile then, and gave a scoff, resting his head on Antonio's shoulder. He was glad that Antonio was at least making an effort. Better than nothing.

"Is that all?" A short, teasing nudge of his elbow into Antonio's side. "I was startin' to think you really were in love with me."

Didn't normally tease like that, but Alfred had put him into such a good mood he couldn't help it.

Antonio played along, easily and happily, and chirped, "Well, that too! You know us Spaniards are always jealous. I always thought I'd come over one day and you'd surprise me with flowers or somethin'. I'm a little heartbroken. I was even thinking about writing a song for you."

Ludwig laughed then, for the second time lately.

Antonio seemed as fascinated by the sound of it as Alfred had been, and stared down at him for a long time.

They huddled there for a while, silent and warm, and Ludwig was grateful that he could still call Antonio a friend.

Antonio squeezed him, and heaved a sigh.

"I don't like him, but if he makes you this happy, then I guess I can live with him, huh?"

A short, comfortable silence.

"Thank you."

Alfred did make him happy, even if it wasn't the way he truly wanted it to be. Just having him around and pining from afar was enough.

Still, though, even though Antonio was trying, he couldn't ever seem to shake the look of worry from his face. And maybe, just maybe, Ludwig should have taken Antonio's worries a bit more seriously.

A hot, muggy night in the beginning of July.

The jingle of the lock, and Ludwig had been happy to see Antonio, at least until Antonio was actually inside. Wasn't smiling, and when he shut the door behind him, Antonio turned to the window and looked behind him. That had been unusual. A horrible look of unease from Antonio, something Ludwig hadn't seen in so _long_ , and it was with a little bit of dread that Ludwig stood still in the kitchen and waited for Antonio to speak.

When he did, Antonio seemed to struggle for words, and finally settled on, "Say, Ludwig. You...you haven't done anything to really piss Luna Lovi off lately, have you?"

A squirm in his stomach.

Ludwig thought about it, and shook his head.

"Not recently."

That was true. Felicia had been coming round, but she always had been, and Luna Lovi hadn't even shown his face, not since Alfred had scared the living daylights outta him.

Antonio, far from relieved, pursed his lips.

"Oh. Well, a couple of people I've run into have been wanting me to tell you that someone was going around the city lookin' for you. I didn't say anything before, but... Now I'm kinda worried. You know _why_."

The squirm in his stomach was growing all the more unpleasant, and Ludwig nodded. He hadn't pissed off Luna Lovi, but he might have pissed off someone worse.

Alfred's father.

Antonio was right to worry this time, had been right to worry all along, because Alfred _was_ trouble, in the end, and suddenly Antonio's almost irrational dislike of Alfred didn't seem quite so irrational anymore.

Antonio set his foot down very firmly then, and said, "I'm gonna be stayin' over a lot again. Hope you don't mind. Just in case."

He nodded, again, although Antonio wasn't asking permission.

Couldn't really think of anything to say, and damn, did he ever feel sick all of a sudden. The old bastard had probably paid someone to get rid of him or try to scare him off. Hadn't ever thought it would come to that, certainly. He was glad that Antonio was alarmed, to make him feel less pitiful for being a little scared about it. Glad that Antonio had taken charge, too, because he wouldn't even have known where to start. It had been a while now since he had had to watch his back. Hoped he wouldn't ever have to again.

Oh, _man_ —

He had been feeling so _safe_ lately, so safe under Alfred's arm. Hadn't wanted that feeling to end, but it was hard to cling to when Antonio had suddenly laid out a list of ground rules for him, a list, like they were in a battle or something, and Ludwig had the intention of obeying _most_ of them.

Most of them.

Don't answer the door without looking first. Don't walk around in sparsely populated areas. Don't go out unless necessary. Be smart and keep an eye out. Never let down your guard. It was like the old days, all over again. Almost. One of Antonio's rules was one that Ludwig was absolutely sure he would be breaking.

Don't see _him_.

Him. Antonio just said _him_. Ludwig knew damn well who _he_ was.

Antonio meant well, of course he did, but Antonio was still leery and considerably un-fond of Alfred, and Ludwig had no problem anymore admitting that Alfred could have revealed himself to be Satan, and Ludwig still would have opened the door for him. Nothing on this earth could have kept him away from Alfred. He was enamored with Alfred, absolutely enamored, and so the thought of not _seeing_ him was well beyond horrifying.

Crazy father or no.

Sorry, Antonio.

Speaking of Antonio, he really had been serious when he had said he intended to stay over more. And suddenly, yet again, Ludwig found himself torn between Antonio and Alfred, and even though Antonio had the right of way, Ludwig found himself sneaking out all the same and slinking in shadows with Alfred. He loved Antonio. Always would, as much as he loved Felicia, but he just couldn't help it.

Couldn't stay away from Alfred.

Antonio had even started sleeping in his bed. How strange. Had nearly died the first time, waking up in the middle of the night to a rustle and seeing someone laying down next to him.

Surreal.

It was a little fascinating, to have someone sleeping in his bed for the first time, and maybe some part of him felt that his personal space had been violated, but the other half was quite glad. Anyway, the fact that Antonio cared enough about him to sleep in his bed at night just in case someone wanted to hurt him was pretty enthralling. Having a friend like that without having done anything to deserve it.

All the same...

Kinda wished someone else was layin' there.

When Antonio flipped over in his sleep and had them nose to nose, Ludwig just stared at him, and tried to imagine what it would feel like if it had been Alfred there instead. Good thing Antonio couldn't read his mind.

But a week passed, and then two, three, and no threat ever became visible, and even though he knew he shouldn't have, Ludwig eventually let down his guard, and maybe Antonio did too, because he wasn't coming by every day anymore.

Good. More time to spend with Alfred.

Anyway, if someone was looking for him, then they weren't doing so very successfully, and this huge city worked to his advantage.

Sunset, near the end of July.

A knock.

Antonio wasn't here.

Ludwig opened the door, and Alfred scampered in.

Well. If there really was any danger behind Alfred, then it was a testament of how enamored with Alfred Ludwig had become that he was willing to risk it. He'd risk anything, anything at all, as long as Alfred kept coming around.

In return, he wished that Alfred would turn to him, take his hand, and ask if they could be 'you and me'.

'Him and Alfred' was all he wanted.

Together.

He didn't get to say anything that night, though, didn't even get to really look at Alfred, because as soon as he had come in, Alfred suddenly reached out, grabbed Ludwig's hand tightly, and said, "Come with me."

Where? It was night.

A tug towards the door.

A burst of fear, anxiety, exhilaration, elation, everything, and somehow, Ludwig felt himself putting on his boots and letting Alfred drag him outside, even though he knew he shouldn't have gone. Even though he knew it might not have been safe. Even though he was putting himself into a vulnerable position. Almost didn't care. To trust, for once, to let Alfred lead him on blindly, was close to a relief. He could say that he trusted Alfred, and that felt beyond good. To be able to put himself into someone else's hands, for once, and to be able to trust, felt freeing. Letting go of everything.

Safe.

When he was with Alfred, he felt safe. That was all.

So, he didn't ask where they were going, or why. Didn't open his mouth at all. He just let Alfred drag him, and enjoyed the hand around his own. Wished, though, that he were brave enough to squeeze Alfred's hand in return.

Together. What a strange word, and a stranger sensation.

To be _together_ , with someone. Togetherness wasn't something he could have ever really explained; it was more of a feeling, a knowing of sorts, that he and Alfred were, in whatever way, together. That Alfred understood him. To feel as if there was someone in the world who really cared about him. Someone who could look at him and not really care about the bad things they saw, because they could somehow see better things underneath. To have someone who could look at him and _see_ him and still want to come to him, even if he didn't understand why.

Every day, no matter how hard he tried to stop it, he fell harder and harder for Alfred.

Togetherness.

For it, he'd follow Alfred anywhere.


	17. Invitation to the Dance

**Chapter 17**

**Invitation to the Dance**

Alfred wasn't surprised anymore when Ludwig let him in.

Had been doing so for weeks now.

Never got old, certainly not, never stopped being thrilling, but it didn't surprise him anymore.

He was surprised lately, though, that when Ludwig had been opening the door for him he had then been poking his head out of the frame as if to check that there wasn't anyone behind Alfred. Made Alfred wonder if, perhaps, Ludwig had gotten paranoid about the old man again, like before. That would have hurt, to have Ludwig worrying again about shadows. Took so look to get anxious Ludwig to calm. Hate to see him riled again. Took so long to get Ludwig to stop swimming in anxiety. To stop worrying. To stop fretting. Took so long to get Ludwig to _trust_ him.

Didn't want all of that to start up again.

These days, Alfred usually just did his best to distract him, to take Ludwig's eyes away from the dark, and that night was no exception.

Tonight.

Well, actually tonight _was_ an exception, because Alfred had something planned that certainly would have made the old man vanish completely from Ludwig's mind forever. Hopefully.

It was warm outside.

Tonight was meant to be something special. Nothin' was gonna ruin that, not even the ghost of the old man. Nothing could have deterred him, could have stopped him, and nothing was going to shake him, not even Ludwig's sudden fear of shadows.

Determined.

Ludwig was coming with him, whether he wanted to or not.

If he had told Ludwig his plans, he would have been shot down. If he had asked Ludwig if he would come, he would have been denied. It was the only logical thing he could have done, to grab Ludwig's hand as soon as he opened the door and haul him forcefully out of the house.

Alfred was glad that Ludwig's friend wasn't home. Ah, hell, what was his name? Ludwig had told him once. Antonio or Anton, something like that. He made Alfred more than uncomfortable. Not because every time that man looked at him it was obvious that he was trying very hard not to punch him, but rather because Alfred didn't like the fact that he was still closer to Ludwig than _he_ was.

It hit him, sometimes, that Ludwig and his friend looked _good_ together. Just the way they interacted, the way that Ludwig was so completely at ease with him, the way that man was perfectly comfortable speaking to Ludwig and touching him. The way they looked together was irritably pleasant as well. Ludwig, so pale, next to someone a few shades darker. Platinum hair, contrasting so nicely with brunet. Blond stubble standing against brown. Cerulean eyes meeting jade.

Had put up with a lot of things, but couldn't stand _that_.

How they looked together. That guy was handsome, absolutely, and sometimes Alfred felt a bit inadequate. Always worried that Ludwig had so many better options. Alfred was a blowhard, an arrogant son of a bitch, but that didn't change the fact that he could look in the mirror and be self-conscious about what he saw.

Ludwig's friend was handsome.

Beyond the look of them, there was the language barrier. Couldn't understand what that guy was saying, and hated that he could speak to Ludwig better than Alfred could.

Ludwig's English was good. Great. Had to give credit where it was due, because no doubt it had been a struggle for Ludwig to learn, and he had done a great job, he really had, but both he and Ludwig could have very easily agreed that Ludwig was far from fluent. And so it was beyond uncomfortable knowing that that guy could communicate on a deeper level with Ludwig, knowing that he could connect more than Alfred could. Hated that more than anything else, actually. Languages were powerful things, and there was no arguing with the fact that being able to speak German was an advantage that Alfred would never have. Couldn't beat that guy when it came to that. Couldn't stand them speaking to each other and not knowing what they were saying. Really couldn't.

...shoulda studied more before that book had met its untimely demise.

Well. In time. Plenty more opportunities to study, when Ludwig had been settled.

In the meanwhile, he wouldn't deny that he was jealous. Absolutely was. Hated someone else being next to Ludwig, because Ludwig hadn't been pinned down yet. Didn't want anyone else suddenly jumping in before Alfred could get Ludwig wrangled. Didn't want anyone snatching the rug from underneath him when Ludwig was so _close_.

So close.

He could feel it, he could, just couldn't really see it yet. Seemed so far, still, in some way.

Ludwig was a considerably confusing human being.

These weeks had been a little frustrating, to say the least. Had come about so fast, this strange romance, that maybe Ludwig had had as little time to process it as Alfred had. Sure hoped it was a romance, anyway, rather than Alfred barking up the wrong tree.

Maybe it was just the rather simple fact that Alfred was a man, and Ludwig was, too. None of this was exactly normal, not really a science, and Alfred didn't have anywhere to look or anyone to turn to. Didn't know anyone, at least not being aware of it, that was like him. Didn't know a single man in the city that was currently wooing another man. Surely there were guys like him hidden away here and there, had to be, but he didn't know any, and so it was a little harder.

Nothing to emulate when you felt isolated from the world. Worse when you were trying to figure out someone like Ludwig.

Had to be Ludwig.

Felt like he tried everything, everything possible, to convey to Ludwig exactly what was going on in his head, but Ludwig didn't really seem to respond much, aside from blushing so hard and so often that Alfred was afraid he might have been breaking Ludwig's face. Hadn't known anyone could blush so _much_. Pale as Ludwig was, he couldn't ever hide it, either. Confusing, though, to try and put together that amount of blushing with that amount of... _nothing_.

Nothin'.

Everything had been bust, although, to be fair to Ludwig, Alfred didn't even know what the hell he had really been expecting from Ludwig. Didn't know what reaction he wanted, what words he wanted. Didn't know what he wanted from Ludwig, but knew he wanted something. Anything. Any damn reaction at all.

The thought of Ludwig not being interested in him was rather impossible to stomach. That Ludwig just wasn't into other guys. Couldn't handle that, he really couldn't. Couldn't have handled it if Ludwig had just looked at him, and said, 'Sorry, but I'm not like that.' Woulda died, from outright misery more than humiliation. Wouldn't have been embarrassed, but would have been rather heartbroken. He'd fallen so hard for Ludwig that being rejected would have damn near crushed him.

Hadn't ever wanted a relationship, not a steady one, not once in his entire life, until he had met Ludwig. A strange feeling, almost furious in a way, just by how much he _wanted_ it. Had always wondered what it must have felt like for those guys, the ones who were so in love that even when they went to war the most important thing they did was to sit down and write a letter to their girl.

Felt amazing.

If another war had started then and Alfred had somehow gotten shipped out, he knew for damn certain that the first thing he would do when he landed would be to pull out a piece of paper and write Ludwig a letter.

Couldn't fathom the thought of it not working out.

It wasn't really something he was too worried about, though; Ludwig not being like him. Honestly, Alfred had always thought it would be easy to tell, easy enough anyway, and it sort of was. Ludwig _had_ to be like him, because Ludwig was letting him go far beyond the realm of friendship. Ludwig had been letting him do all of these things without ever once sending him a grimace or putting him in place.

Had to be.

But just because Ludwig might have liked guys didn't necessarily mean that Ludwig thought about _him_ like that. And that hurt his pride, someone not being interested in _him_ , so he constantly convinced himself that he just needed to make it more obvious.

Somehow.

Thought he'd been damn obvious enough, but maybe not. Maybe Ludwig just didn't _get_ it. Ludwig was smart, sure, but seemed a bit dumb when it came to human interactions. Poor guy. Probably had never been wooed in his entire life, and just didn't know the motions. Ludwig didn't really know how to be normal, and was therefor blind to normal signs.

Maybe Ludwig just needed it to be spelled out. Welp. He could manage that, certainly.

Tonight, he would.

Tonight was it.

Ludwig was gonna know, for sure, and so all Alfred had to determine was whether he was going to be shot down or not. Hoped that what he had put together was enough to make his plane stay airborne for a while longer, even if Ludwig was only humoring him. Sure had exhausted himself with it. Had put everything he had into it, into this effort to get Ludwig to figure it all out. Hoped that he would impress Ludwig enough to where even if Ludwig wasn't in love with him, then Ludwig would at least think to himself that giving Alfred a chance was worth a shot. If Ludwig would just give him a _chance_ , Alfred was pretty confident that he could eventually charm him off his feet and make him forget that he hadn't ever been interested.

Sure hoped so.

Had worked so hard on this. It was the best fuckin' idea he'd ever had, of that he was certain. It hadn't even been planned, either. Just happened.

He'd gone over to see Francis, early in the day, just to stop in for a friendly chat, and had been greeted with a rather odd look. Right off, Alfred had thought that maybe he had been doing something weird again, that maybe Francis had seen something off about Alfred, but it didn't take Alfred too long to see that, rather, something about _Francis_ had seemed odd in that moment.

Looked so uncomfortable. Didn't take long to find out why, either.

'So!' Francis had began, rather awkwardly. 'Guess what happened today?'

Alfred had just smiled, hands in his pockets.

What Francis said next was entirely unexpected, and actually rather unpleasant.

'Your father called me. ...and invited me for dinner.'

Oh. Well.

The old man hadn't even crossed his mind at all lately, not for a second, not with the way he'd been chasing Ludwig furiously all over town like they were gonna miss prom.

Out of sight, out of mind. So many other things to think about than his father. Couldn't say, then, why he felt a little uneasy. Why his stomach was squirming like that. Why he had suddenly found his feet interesting.

Francis had laughed a little, adding, strangely, 'Isn't that funny? He hasn't invited me to anything since the wedding.'

A twinge of regret, for Francis. Awkward. How odd it must have felt for him, talking to that man over the phone.

Francis had looked up at Alfred then, a bit sternly, and asked, 'Have you even been home, Alfred? Haven't you gone home?'

Nope. Didn't feel bad about it, either.

He shook his head.

Francis' look had suddenly become exasperated.

'Alfred. How long has it been? I know that you two haven't been getting along lately, but he's still your father, you know? He misses you. He doesn't sound too great, either. You should go home, Alfred. Go see him. Go check on him. Make sure he's alright. If something happens to him without you ever seeing him... I just don't want you to regret anything. Once he's gone, you can't take anything back, you know.'

Gone.

A rush of anger, perhaps irrational.

Without thinking, Alfred barked, 'So what! I don't miss _him_! I don't owe him nothin'! I'm not going home. I don't wanna see him. I don't care if I ever see him again. I don't have nothin' to say to him.'

What did Francis know about it? Francis only came by for Christmas, and only for an hour or two. If the old man was still Alfred's father, then he was still Francis' brother-in-law, too, wasn't he, if only through Alfred. One to talk, alright. When was the last time Francis had picked up the phone to call the old man? What did Francis know about familial stability? Francis spent his days with women he never saw again, spent his days wooing girls that never called. Spent his nights alone. Spent his mornings alone. Francis could just have easily called the old man, could just as easily have gone over to see him.

Didn't. What did _he_ know?

Francis didn't know the old man, didn't know a damn thing. Hardly ever even bothered to ask unless the old man came to him first.

Well.

...maybe that wasn't quite fair.

Not Francis' problem, at least not anymore. Couldn't pin it all on Francis. Yeah, Francis was a hypocrite, but so was he. It was Alfred's responsibility, always had been. Not Francis'.

Just made him so _mad_ , so mad, thinking too much about it all. Didn't want to see the old man, because he knew he was getting worse, and, selfishly, Alfred didn't want that scene to ruin the good mood he found himself in when he was around Ludwig. Seeing the old man like that would have made Alfred feel bad, feel guilty maybe, and it made him a bad guy but he didn't want to feel that way.

Wanted to feel the way Ludwig made him feel instead.

The old man ruined everything, without even trying to.

The anger dulled down into a throb about as suddenly as it had began. Francis didn't understand, and should have made more effort to, but Alfred should have tried, too. Couldn't stay angry with Francis. Loved him too much, and, in the end, Francis was really the only family he had. Didn't want to count the old man anymore, so Francis was it.

Just wished Francis understood him a little better sometimes. Maybe that was a mutual feeling. Surely Francis wished that Alfred would be a little more in tune with him.

Well. Seemed like the only person that really even understood him anymore was Ludwig—

Ludwig.

Alfred didn't know exactly what it was, exactly where it had come from or why, but it had struck him like a bullet all the same, that idea, and he had jumped up and cried, before Francis could even berate him more for not going home, 'Well! He called _you_ , didn't he? He wants to see you, so! Go! Yeah, yeah, that's great! Dinner is great! Go, won't you?'

Francis had looked startled more than anything else, but when he opened his mouth, Alfred was quick to interrupt.

'Yeah, that's perfect! Dinner. When's the last time you went over for dinner?'

He wouldn't ever know where he had gotten that nerve or _that_ idea. Maybe it was just the murderous desire to see Ludwig _happy_.

Wanted a real smile.

That idea.

And it couldn't be done at Ludwig's house, even though Ludwig let him in, because there was always the possibility of Ludwig's friend walking in and ruining everything, and by god, if that guy had ruined what Alfred had in mind, no force on earth could have stopped him from kicking that guy right in the fuckin' nose.

Better to stay somewhere safe.

So Alfred carried on, saying, 'Please go. Oh, man, please, I've got such a good idea! Why don't you go to dinner and then stay the night, huh?'

Francis might have actually blanched.

'S-stay the _night_? What—'

But Alfred was quick to turn Francis' words against him, and added, 'You said he didn't sound good, didn't'cha, so go have dinner with him and stay the night and you can keep an eye on him and see how's he's doin'! Oh, please, please go! I gotta... I have an idea, and I really need ya to work with me. Please work with me.'

'An idea? What kind of idea?'

Without answering directly, Alfred waved him off with a quick, 'Can I have your house tonight?'

' _What_?'

Alfred was sneaky, always had been, and was used to getting what he wanted, one way or another, and he wasn't about to let up this time, not on something he wanted this badly.

He reached out, and grabbed Francis by the upper arm, saying, 'Please! Just trust me. Please, please do this for me. Please, I'll do anything you want. I'll owe you one, just please do me this favor! C'mon, have I ever done you over? Please, just this once!'

Francis was glaring away at him, but Alfred could already see him foundering. Francis couldn't ever seem to refuse Alfred. After all, Alfred did have his mother's eyes.

So, eventually Francis had hung his head and gave a strangled sigh, and before long he was getting dressed and getting ready to head out.

Alfred was plotting. Thinking. What to do...

When it was time, Francis trudged huffily to the door, hair tied neatly back and looking far more formal than he needed to just to have dinner with Alfred's father, and looked quite irritable.

Alfred clapped him on the back as he grabbed the doorknob, and smiled way.

'Thanks a bunch! I really appreciate it, man, do I ever.'

Francis gave him the hardest look that Alfred had ever seen Francis give _anyone_ , and when he spoke again, he said, quite firmly, 'You _owe_ me. You owe me.'

Oh, yeah he did. This was a big goddamn favor he was asking, and he knew that Francis was submitting himself to suffering for Alfred's benefit.

'I know,' he had said, immediately, and offered himself up quite quickly. 'I'll do anything you want for the rest of my life. I swear. I'm at your service until I die.'

A little bit of an exaggeration, but one that he felt necessary to get Francis the hell out of there.

A narrow-eyed glance of suspicion, but Francis finally headed out.

Triumph.

Oh, man, Ludwig was in for it, alright.

As Francis left, Alfred was struck by a sudden thought, an afterthought of sorts, and skidded over to the door.

'Hey!' he called, as Francis started walking down the street.

A look back.

'Hm?'

Alfred smiled, and had called, 'Before you go, teach me how to be more romantic!'

Francis stood there for a moment, with a stern look, as if he were going to say, 'Don't you dare have a goddamn _date_ in _my_ house, you little punk, that's my job,' but his face quickly softened and then he burst into a smile.

A laugh.

'Alfred! You can't learn to be romantic, you just...are!'

Alfred furrowed his brow and felt a bit helpless. Confused.

'Well, tell me how to 'be', then.'

Didn't know a damn thing about romance, which was a problem because he was gonna need some for what he had in mind, more than a little, and Francis had romance to spare.

His heart had been pounding, even as Francis had started laughing.

'It's not hard, Alfred. Just do it without thinking.'

'But, what do I _do_? How do I know what's going to make me look romantic?'

Francis shook his head, and held out his arms, rather gracefully. A smile, and a tilt of his head. 'No, no, Alfred! You've got it all wrong! To be romantic, you should look at what you're doing and think, not if _you_ look good, but rather, 'Is this going to make so-and-so smile?' Always! Think about if what you're doing is going to make them smile. Don't worry about anything else. Don't even worry about how you'll look. That's all there is to it. And then you are romantic!'

Alfred furrowed his brow, but Francis had already started walking off.

Well, that was...vague. Damn.

With Francis' less-than-helpful advice ringing in his ears, Alfred had shut the door and retreated back inside, eyeballing Francis' house as his mind whirred away. Felt stuck, suddenly, caught in place. Didn't even know where to start. What to do.

Had never done this before.

His idea of 'dates' had always been taking a girl out to a diner and a movie and then trying damn hard to sneak his hand under a blouse and get to second-base as soon as they were alone, and sometimes even when they weren't. Good for a quick fling, but that certainly wasn't what he had in mind this time. This meant more than that. So much more. He'd taken Ludwig to a diner, yeah, but that had been different, and Ludwig hadn't exactly enjoyed himself, and somehow Ludwig didn't seem like the kinda guy that would have been too keen to have a sloppy Alfred trying to feel him up in a dark theatre.

Anyway, Ludwig deserved more than that. Deserved a real attempt.

So he looked around the living room, thought about things he could do, and took Francis' advice to heart as much as possible. Anytime an idea had crossed his mind, no matter how excited it made him, he forced himself to stop, think about it, and ask himself if it would make Ludwig smile.

And honestly? It was a lot fuckin' harder than Francis had made it sound.

The first few times, at least.

Seemed that, in his mind, Ludwig would have just sighed and looked confused. That Ludwig would have rolled his eyes or turned his head. That Ludwig would be thoroughly unimpressed with everything he did. That Ludwig would, god forbid, laugh at him. Horror. His _worst_ fear, of putting everything he had into something that he thought was nothing short of magnificent, only for Ludwig to shrug a shoulder and say, 'So what?' To have Ludwig make fun of him. To see something he had given his all to only to have it shot down.

To not be perfect.

To have Ludwig see him at last, and see something he didn't like. Couldn't stand the thought. Self-consciousness crept up. Anxiety.

Well. Wait, though—when was the last time Ludwig had ever been mean? When was the last time Ludwig had ever actually made fun of Alfred? When had Ludwig ever been malicious?

...never. Never.

Ludwig had never been mean, not ever. He was stern as could be, sure, didn't smile or laugh much, but he wasn't mean. Might have looked it, but that appearance was absolutely deceiving. Alfred had never seen Ludwig be intentionally cruel. Actually, he couldn't really even picture it up in his head, as gentle as Ludwig was beneath it all. Couldn't see Ludwig ever doing anything to hurt anyone.

Ludwig wasn't a mean guy, not in any sense, so Alfred couldn't really say why the mental image of Ludwig kept on sneering.

At first, anyway.

Took him a while to figure out that he was attaching his own insecurity to that mental image, his own dismal sense of self-worth, because he sure hadn't thought, long ago, that a stupid sentence would have made Ludwig laugh like that.

Ludwig wasn't hard to please, not when it came to things like that. Ludwig was the nicest guy he knew, and even if Ludwig hadn't really been impressed he would have keeled over dead before he said anything that would hurt Alfred's feelings, and so his ego and pride would remain thoroughly intact no matter what the verdict was on his technique.

With that promising thought, Alfred tried again.

A lot easier the second time.

He sat down at the kitchen table, put his palms down upon it, and closed his eyes. Thinking of everything he had ever seen Francis do, everything he had ever heard Francis say, every tale of romance and conquests Francis had ever told him. The sight of Francis' house, anytime Alfred had accidentally interrupted a date. Seemed impossible to emulate that man, until he forced himself to say, 'Well, goddammit, that's my uncle, and by god, if he can do it, then so can I.'

Right.

Francis was his uncle. Whatever unholy charm ran through Francis' veins had to be buried somewhere within him, too. Sure hoped so, because the only other alternative was the old man, and somehow, Alfred couldn't really look back on his stepmothers and wish that he could have imitated his father's ideas of romance.

Yikes.

Better to try and find his inner-Francis. Had to be there, somewhere, and he'd find it, come hell or high water.

Eventually, it did come.

In some way, it didn't come to him as easily as he had hoped, but it did _come_. Sort of. Not anything on par with what Francis could have come up with, but for him it seemed pretty spectacular. Up in his head, anyway. Turning that image into real life would be much harder. All he had to work with was the memory of Francis' house when he had walked in before Francis was having a date. Trying to grasp onto that sight, and use it as a guide.

Candles set up all over. Wine on the table. Soft music in the background, drifting in from the record player in the living room. Dinner. Flowers.

Francis was his uncle. Just had to keep reminding himself of that.

Alfred found himself, a while later, rummaging through Francis' house to see what he could find, or, rather, would he could get away with stealing, which wasn't too much in the end, just a few candles, and then he made a trip to a few stores. Didn't feel dumb at all later on, buying that stuff, because he got so many knowing leers that he was comfortable it would be painfully obvious to even oblivious Ludwig what the hell Alfred wanted.

Had to be so obvious.

One of the guys that sold him the three bottles of wine gave him a long, hard stare, before saying, coyly, 'You're gonna have one happy skirt tonight, aren't ya?'

A little twinge of melancholy, but only because Alfred wished he could have responded, 'Nah, but I'm gonna have one happy suit.'

Couldn't say it. Felt like nobody would understand.

Wasn't afraid to say it if somebody pressed, absolutely not, wasn't afraid to stand there and say it to someone's face if that was what they wanted, but even he knew that blurting it aloud for no reason whatsoever could lead to problems he didn't feel like dealing with. Like Matthew said—discretion. Didn't care much for discretion, but this time it was necessary, if only to make his and Ludwig's lives a little smoother.

All melancholy had faded the second he was on his way back to Francis' house, anyway, as excited as he was. He was so loaded down by the time he finished that he could barely walk.

...shoulda made Francis help him set everything up before sending him off. Too late. On his own now, and if he wanted it badly enough, he could manage. And boy, did he ever want it. More than anything.

Tonight, Ludwig would smile. He was sure of it. If this didn't work, if _this_ didn't make Ludwig smile, then nothing would.

Tonight.

He set to work. Up in his head, everything was perfect. A lot harder to put it all together than he had thought it would be, and maybe he wasn't exactly that great at turning his thoughts into reality. Wasn't great at being creative, at being artistic. Wasn't great at _romance_ , was what it came down to. Did the best he could, though, because Ludwig deserved that much.

As he set it all up, his hands started shaking a bit.

He always claimed to be confident, always claimed to be prepared, always claimed to be unfazed, always claimed to be in control of himself and everything around him, so he couldn't say why this scared the hell out of him. Why this was terrifying. Why he was so scared of letting Ludwig down. Why he was scared of this just not being enough.

Still, he slugged on, because that was what he did, more so when he was this damn nervous. Couldn't stop. He'd already come this far.

As an afterthought, Alfred had gone into his claimed bedroom, too. Wishful thinking, probably, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Looking back on it, Alfred could say with absolute certainty that, although he had done some pretty hard things, being romantic was the hardest. The most difficult, nerve-wracking thing he had ever tried to do in his life, if only because he had to put so much into it and then not even be able to know if he was successful until someone else told him he was.

Wouldn't know what Ludwig thought until Ludwig saw it, and then it would be too late to change anything had Ludwig been displeased. Being romantic was actually pretty damn terrifying, come to think. Maybe just because it was the first time. Maybe each time got easier and easier, until, eventually, he would be just like Francis. Hoped so, because this anxiety was suffocating.

It took him hours. By the time he was done, the sun had already gone down.

Alfred had stood there for a while, double-checking everything and nitpicking here and there, and it had taken him a long time to actually gather the courage to back up to the door. Took him longer to open it.

Just wanted Ludwig.

Somehow, he found his bravery, and had set out.

Alright, now the biggest challenge was getting to Ludwig's and back without burning Francis' fuckin' house down. Kinda wanted to avoid that. Alfred really would have been enslaved to Francis for the rest of his life if Francis came back to a pile of ashes.

That aside, everything had gone alarmingly smoothly; the streets had been easy to get through, Ludwig's friend hadn't been home and Ludwig was, and Ludwig had easily complied with Alfred.

The beautiful feel of Ludwig's hand within his own as he had pulled him outside.

Humid air. An orange haze low on the horizon from the hidden sun. A star or two above, creeping out from the blue of space. Warm wind.

So far, so good. Ludwig didn't protest.

Alfred was steadily figuring out that things went much more smoothly for him when he did things without asking Ludwig first.

Had he asked Ludwig to take the jacket, Ludwig would have refused. Had he asked Ludwig if it was alright if he could walk him down the steps, Ludwig might have smacked him. Had he asked Ludwig politely if he would kindly stay away from the street, please and thanks, Ludwig would have done the opposite. And if Alfred had asked Ludwig to come to this side of town at night, Ludwig would have shot him down.

Ludwig was a nice guy, yeah, but he was stubborn, too wary of people's intentions, too self-conscious to ever think the best of certain actions, too suspicious to ever assume that some people were nice for no reason, even though Ludwig himself was like that.

When it came to things that Alfred wanted to do, Ludwig liked to be difficult. Might not have been intentional, but it was there all the same. As if, when given an option, the only thing Ludwig could really think of to do was to refuse. Maybe he was too proud to accept things, felt too awkward or too vulnerable. Ludwig was just that way. Offer him a ride along a road and he'd take the trek through the forest instead just so that he wouldn't be under the obligation to owe you anything.

So!

Alfred had started out just doing it without asking, and now, suddenly, Ludwig was complying with everything. Walk down the steps? Sure. Jacket over the shoulders? Yup. Staying away from the street? No problem.

Being dragged through the street at night and not knowing where he was going? Why not?

Maybe Ludwig had just been on his own for so long that it felt good to let someone else be in charge for once. When Alfred asked, Ludwig refused, but when Alfred _did_ , Ludwig accepted. Maybe that hurt Ludwig's pride and security less, to just be forced instead of having to accept an offer.

Every day, Alfred figured out Ludwig a little more.

And so now here he was, hand in hand, and he dragged Ludwig along so fervently because he was more excited then than he had ever been. In his entire life, hadn't ever been so _excited_. So anxious. So terrified. Felt everything, somehow.

Just wanted Ludwig to see it. Wanted Ludwig to _get_ it, at last. Wanted Ludwig to _see_ him.

Ludwig stumbled behind him sometimes, because Alfred was walking so fast, and every so often he asked, in that rumbling voice, "Where are you taking me?"

Alfred always answered, "You'll see!"

Ludwig let him leave it there, because Ludwig trusted him.

That orange haze was gone by the time they reached Francis' house.

The door.

A split-second of hesitation from usually bold Alfred. A jolt of fear. Oh, god, what if Ludwig didn't like it? What if Ludwig turned around and walked back outside? What if Ludwig laughed at him? What if Ludwig were angry? What ifs. So many of them.

Well. Too late to go back now. He'd already dragged Ludwig here. Couldn't really just turn him around and set him off in the opposite direction. Ludwig put up with a lot of his bullshit, but there was a point where even patient Ludwig would get exasperated with him and stomp off.

A glance back.

Ludwig, pale in the glow of the gaslight, hair gleaming white, a rather calm look upon his face, standing there as patiently as always, waiting for Alfred to carry on. That hand was still within his own.

Trust.

And when Alfred opened the door, when he gathered up that nerve, his fretting seemed suddenly pointless, because even he was momentarily impressed.

Well! Coming in from the dull street certainly made everything look all the better, certainly made it pop more, made it more pleasing on the eyes, and he was a little dazzled by it, too.

Ludwig had fallen still in the doorframe, as if he had gotten caught on something, so Alfred used that second of immobility to observe his own work.

The first thing noticeable, for the darkness, were the lights. Francis' house wasn't on fire, but opening the door made it look at first glance as though it was, if only for the candles, because Alfred had set up so many of them. Red and orange and shades of pink and yellow, melded into the black and dark blue of shadows and darkness. Flickering. Shimmering.

Endless glowing.

Beyond the sight of the candles, there was the sound of the record player, scratching away in the living room. Had run out, but that was alright; hardly even noticeable, with everything else going on.

Afterwards, the subtle scent of flowers. No surprise there, because Alfred had bought so many of the damn things that he had actually run out of vases to put them in, and had had to get creative with the last ones; some of them were propped up in books set against the wall, some of them were just laying inert on the tables, and others had simply been tossed here and there in the corners of the rooms.

Bright colors. Petals and stems.

Ludwig loved the outdoors, loved the park, so Alfred had assumed by default that surely Ludwig would like flowers. Maybe he would have liked them a little more still alive, would have liked them better in pots, but it was too late for that. Here they were.

Walking into a dream, as far as he was concerned.

A jittery shiver, and, out of nowhere, Alfred felt content. As if a wave had washed over. He felt about as calm as Ludwig had looked before the door had been opened. Fear vanished. Felt subdued under the pastel shades. Tranquil beneath the flickering lights and the scratching record and the pleasant smell. Might have just stood there, feeling so good as he did then, if something hadn't dragged him out of his sudden stupor.

A faint, sharp gasp behind of him.

It took him a while, actually, to realize that that gasp had come from Ludwig, because he had just never _heard_ anything like that from Ludwig, hadn't ever heard something so soft and so vulnerable from that impassive man.

Oh.

Alfred was pretty sure, then, hearing that sound, hearing that beautiful gasp, that he felt himself falling ever farther in love with that unusual human being called Ludwig. If that were even possible.

When Alfred looked back over his shoulder, after a deep breath, he had expected to see Ludwig smiling. To see him staring at Alfred with nothing short of awe and adoration. He expected Ludwig to turn to him and say, 'Did you do all of this for me?'

He expected Ludwig to say something. Anything.

But when Alfred turned, when he faced Ludwig, when he could finally get a hold of his own senses enough to face the object of his desire, he was a little taken aback. Startled.

Ludwig was standing there, still as could be, hardly breathing, and it struck Alfred that, rather than ecstatic, Ludwig looked rather stupefied. Scared, almost. Looked like a deer that had been ambushed. Wide-eyed and pulse hammering away in his neck, and his hand had clenched onto Alfred's for dear life, as if he were about to get swept away. His legs and shoulders had braced, likely without him controlling it.

Somehow, though, nothing about Ludwig then dampened Alfred's mood. Nothing made him second-guess himself. Nothing made him founder. That look on Ludwig's face. He could see it, really see it, there beneath the shock; awe, alright, so strong that maybe it had knocked Ludwig momentarily senseless.

Alfred could never have put into words the way Ludwig looked, and soon, maybe a minute later, Ludwig had finally regained enough control to twitch his head enough to focus his eyes on Alfred.

Ludwig just stared at him after that.

And it was nothing less than earth-shattering to Alfred, the way Ludwig looked at him. No one had ever really looked at him like _that_ ; like, suddenly, he was really the only thing worth seeing. As if the rest of the world had suddenly faded away and Alfred was the only thing left behind.

Nothing like it.

Most people had looked at Alfred and saw something amusing, as he had always tried to be. Saw him as an annoyance, an idiot, a pain, an obstacle, some dumb kid who didn't know anything about the world, a troublemaker, an instigator, a street brat, a punk, a loudmouth nobody. They saw what they wanted to see. Rather, they saw what Alfred had wanted them to see. They saw the act he put on, they saw the confidence and the arrogance. They saw the pride and the disregard. The self-satisfied air.

They had seen him, but they had never seen _him_.

No one had ever looked at him the way Ludwig did then.

Ludwig saw him.

Ludwig didn't speak, and didn't really even seem to be able to. As if his voice had died the very second Alfred had dragged him through the door. He opened his mouth once or twice, as if he meant to say something, but it amounted to a whole lot of nothing. It took a long time for Ludwig to finally get a word out, to get his body and mind synchronizing again, and when he did, Alfred almost didn't recognize that voice that came out of Ludwig's mouth. Almost didn't recognize it as Ludwig's.

Those tones. Deep as ever, but softer somehow. Gentler. As if Ludwig's voice were finally able to represent Ludwig's nature, and it was one of the most beautiful things that Alfred had ever heard. Absolutely stunning, in every sense, that voice.

And what Ludwig timidly asked, then, in that deep whisper, somehow made Alfred feel a little vulnerable himself.

"Am I... Should I lea— Did you... Who did you do all this for?"

Was it not obvious?

The way Ludwig was looking at him. Felt dizzy. Terrified as Ludwig, in his own way, just because no one had ever looked at him like that. Daunted. Alarmed in a sense. He'd been trying damn hard to get that look, but hadn't really known it would feel like this once he had it. Overwhelming.

Somehow, he found his senses long enough to ask, in a voice he also almost didn't recognize as his own, "Don't you know?"

As much as Ludwig's voice had softened, maybe his own had gotten a little breathy. Strange.

Just felt so _scared_ , then. Wanted Ludwig to understand. Wanted him to get it. Wanted him to reciprocate, more than anything. Loved that man, and it felt like the world would have ended if Ludwig didn't love him.

Another short, sharp inhale, as Ludwig finally understood that this had been done for him. Just for him.

For a horrible moment there, Alfred was scared that Ludwig was gonna _cry_ ; his face crumpled a little as his eyes squinted, a flash of shadow across his face, and oh, Christ, Alfred wouldn't even have known what to _do_ then, if Ludwig had started cryin'. Wouldn't have known how to proceed from there. Wouldn't have been enough of a quick thinker to pull something off afterwards. Wouldn't have been clever enough to play that off.

Luckily, it passed almost as quickly as it came, and Ludwig just turned his eyes down to his feet, and his shoulders seemed to fall. Looked so _sad_ , then, suddenly.

Alfred couldn't really understand why, at first, but that almost forlorn look on Ludwig's face made it a little bit easier to grasp.

Ludwig was so overwhelmed because no one had ever really been nice to him before, not here, anyway, no one but that girl and that friend of his, and it must have seemed so strange to him that someone had actually gone through what he must have seen as trouble for him. That someone had done something that had been meant only for him. That someone had deemed him important enough to lift a hand for.

And, somehow, that _hurt_.

Ludwig was such a beautiful human being, in every sense of the word. People should have shown Ludwig every goddamn day how amazing he was. People should have looked at him and been ashamed that they didn't even give _half_ as much effort into being as good a person as Ludwig did. Ludwig had been through hell, and was still the nicest guy that Alfred had ever met. There were people who had never known a hard day in their lives that were still mean for no damn reason.

Wasn't fair. None of that was fair.

Ludwig deserved everything, and got nothing.

Everyone that ever crossed paths with Ludwig should have made a point to let him know how spectacular he was. Should have told him every single day, no matter how many times it took, so that Ludwig would finally _understand_. Even if it had to be beaten through his head, Ludwig deserved to know. Even if Ludwig was too embarrassed to hear it, someone should have said it.

Someone should have told Ludwig that he was worth everything.

Ludwig should have been able to look at himself in the mirror and be proud of what he saw. Deserved to look straight ahead, without ever glancing down at the pavement. Deserved to feel worth it. Wouldn't ever understand how Ludwig didn't _know_ that he was beautiful. Wouldn't ever understand that. How Ludwig didn't know he was wonderful in every way. How Ludwig didn't know that he was what everyone should be.

How Ludwig didn't know that he was very much the center of Alfred's universe.

It took a little while for Ludwig to gather himself, and it actually took Alfred reaching out and forcibly lifting Ludwig's chin before he finally was able to take his eyes off the floor. Touching him felt amazing, it always did, but Alfred wished that he was bold enough to say, 'Please don't ever look at the ground again.'

Killed him a little when Ludwig stared at the ground.

It was pathetic, disgusting, that this was undoubtedly the nicest thing anyone had ever done for Ludwig. That the city had had something wonderful and had decided to crush it instead. Something great, and knocked it down. Something kind, and for that had tried to break it.

Not too late, though.

Ludwig might have looked down too much, but that was fixable yet. Ludwig hadn't broken, despite it all. Ludwig was stronger than Alfred was, when everything was said and done. Anyway, they were young. Alfred had the rest of his life to get Ludwig to figure it out. The rest of his life to make it up to Ludwig. Wanted to wake up every day and tell Ludwig he was beautiful, just so he'd smile.

Plenty of time.

So when Ludwig finally managed to meet his eyes, Alfred just smiled, and teased, gently, "Did I do that bad? I thought it looked alright. Don't cry, man. I can do better next time. Was it the flowers? Did I get the wrong kind?"

A silence, and then Ludwig let out a strange little laugh that was probably an effort to push away a sob. Worked, though, that tease, and Ludwig cleared up right after that, and just stared at Alfred like he had fallen from the sky.

Alfred knew it, then—he loved being looked at like that.

He gripped Ludwig's hand, and finally yanked him inside. When the door shut behind them, it felt to Alfred as if their own universe had been created. Just the two of them, then, well and truly alone for the first time. Alfred was so damn astounded by that fact that he didn't even know what the hell to do next. Didn't know where to start. Ludwig was still looking at him in awe, so all Alfred could think of to do was push him down onto the couch and then run into the kitchen for a bottle of wine.

Needed booze, and fast, before Ludwig killed him with that look.

His hands were shaking so bad by then that he could barely uncork the bottle. Felt hot. Agitated. His face must have been red.

On the way back into the living room, after successfully not dropping the bottle and glasses, he offhandedly put the record player back on. Honestly, he wasn't sure why, because when he sat down and poured the wine, neither one of them even seemed to be listening to the music. He didn't even like that kind of music anyway; Francis' stuff, an orchestra belting out some waltzes. If he had had his way, he would have put on some rock and roll, but there had been none to be found.

Didn't matter; Ludwig wasn't listening. Just sat stiffly on the couch, hands clenched in his lap and staring at Alfred quite intently through his loose hair. A victim of Alfred's surprise no doubt, as much as that wrinkled, casual clothing was.

Staring.

Goddamn, kinda wished Ludwig would knock it off, honestly. Almost too much for him to handle, and that was coming from a guy that loved all eyes being upon him at any given moment. Ludwig could be exceedingly intense without actually meaning to be. Probably didn't realize the mess he was turning Alfred into.

Absently, he reached up to tug at his collar, and as soon as Ludwig glanced down at the wine, Alfred wasted no time in snatching his glass and saying, a bit thinly, "Cheers, eh?"

Lame.

Ludwig didn't respond, but grabbed the glass all the same.

Anxiously, Alfred put his glass back in one damn chug and was quick to refill it. Nervous. So nervous. Couldn't ever tell what Ludwig was thinking. And it wasn't helping that Ludwig hadn't drank yet. Just held his glass idly in his hand, glancing down at it from time to time but seemingly afraid to drink it.

Hm.

Needed assistance, maybe. Needed it soon, too, because Alfred had just put back his second in an attempt to stave off that damn nervousness. Ludwig seemed a bit reluctant to let himself be put into a vulnerable position, and it was only when Alfred leaned forward and teased him with a gentle, "Guess you Germans just can't have any fun, huh?" that Ludwig finally let loose a little.

Just a little. A few sips every few minutes. For a guy like Ludwig, though, it must have been significant, to drink in a house that was not his own. It was those simple things that made Alfred's pulse race more than any glamour could. Ludwig trusted him.

After that, it got so much easier.

Once he had a little alcohol in his system, Ludwig loosened up, and he drank more. Only took two glasses before Ludwig's face flushed red. Not tipsy yet, certainly, but just the alcohol itself was enough. Pale as he was, that couldn't really be helped. Any little stimulation at all was enough to give Ludwig color, it seemed, and Alfred was as taken with that as he was everything else.

Seemed that everything about Ludwig fascinated him. Loved that man, loved everything about him.

They chattered a bit, in low, quiet tones, about absolutely nothing.

By the time they were on the second bottle, Alfred had put his chin in his palm and was staring as hard at Ludwig as Ludwig was at him. Couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop that happiness, and then Ludwig was suddenly having trouble meeting his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time, as if something had suddenly embarrassed him.

And Alfred could see that a red-faced, squirming, embarrassed Ludwig was one of the greatest things he would ever see in his life, so he leaned over, purposefully pressing his knee into Ludwig's as he refilled their glasses.

Ludwig's mortified smile was worth the world. Had there ever been anything more attractive?

They made small talk.

Alfred kept his hands loose and gentle, and made sure to brush against Ludwig every chance he got. Always, his reward was one of those little smiles of embarrassment.

The night wore on.

Alfred hadn't found the courage yet to say, 'I have to confess something : I think I love ya.'

He was all talk. With Ludwig right in front of him, he suddenly couldn't say it.

For his part, for all of his staring, Ludwig hadn't spoken up either and asked, 'So, is this a date or what?'

Damn.

The second bottle was long gone soon, and Alfred was feeling the pain, but not quite as much as Ludwig was. Ludwig was surprisingly lightweight, and was pretty close to being out for the count, head back on the couch, arms at his sides and smiling breathlessly away at who knew what. Drunk.

Not too far behind, Alfred's mind wandered in the depths of intoxication. Idea after idea. Notions. Things he wanted to say flitted through his head, things he had considered at times but had quickly pushed away. In intoxication, they were allowed to run rampant. Scenarios. Scenes playing on a loop in his head, of the possible ways to get Ludwig closer. The fantasy of having Ludwig suddenly make the first move, however unlikely it may have been. Imagining how Ludwig's hair felt. His skin.

He found his eyes drifting over and over again to Ludwig's long legs.

Disjointed thoughts. Longing to touch.

Might have been mutual, because Ludwig looked over at him suddenly, when the clock was close to eleven, and uttered, randomly, "Your glasses are falling."

He hadn't noticed, as blurry as his vision was now for the wine, but Ludwig still reached out, and straightened his glasses back up with one finger. His hand lingered there far longer than was necessary, hovering just above Alfred's nose, and Alfred might have bumped his head up intentionally just so that contact would be made.

Fingers on the bridge of his nose. A warm palm on his chin and lips. A faint whiff of cologne. Woodsy. Would have kissed Ludwig's palm, had he been braver. The hand left before he had a chance to gather up bravado, but it still seemed worth it. That smile.

Oh, god.

And then, just like that, out of absolute nowhere, Ludwig started _talking_ , talking, and he didn't stop. Just muttering whatever came to mind. Everything and nothing. Had never heard Ludwig speak so much.

Alfred found himself swallowing, at the lingering sensation of the touch and at Ludwig's voice.

The drunker Ludwig got, the harder it became to understand his English, and somehow Alfred found himself enamored by that. On a good day, Ludwig's accent was thick. Sometimes, Alfred had to take a second to understand a word that Ludwig had said to him. Thick, yeah, but not too bad, all things considered. Drunk, though, that accent was downright overwhelming.

Damn near incomprehensible.

Ludwig's ability to pronounce a simple 'w' completely vanished, English vowels got mixed up with German ones, every 'r' that came out was suddenly brought out from the middle of his throat in a strange sort of purring, and god forbid that Ludwig try to say a word that had a 'q' in it that was followed by a 'ui' because then he was done for.

Hadn't ever heard it, and Alfred found that he very much loved it. Loved every single word that came outta Ludwig's mouth, whether it made sense or not. Whether Ludwig was sputtering real words or ones he made up, Alfred didn't care, just as long as he kept on yammerin'. Loved that voice.

Half the time, Ludwig only got a few words in a sentence right, and Alfred had to fill in the gaps and figure out what he was trying to say, but that was quite alright. He felt engaged, in a way, trying to get inside Ludwig's mind in even such an insignificant way. Connecting with Ludwig on a different level than he was used to.

That fuckin' _voice_. Ludwig's voice always did him in, always, every single time.

Wished that Ludwig was as talkative as _he_ was all the time, because that voice was something close to heaven. Every time Ludwig opened his mouth, Alfred wanted little more than to grab him by the collar, yank him forward, and press their noses together until Ludwig had no choice but to murmur at him.

That voice.

Ludwig looked over at him then, and made the horrible drunken slip-up of accidentally uttering a German word in the middle of a sentence, or at least he assumed it was German and not a made-up mangled English word, and Alfred leapt on it as fast as he could, feeling quite drunk himself. Maybe not just from the alcohol, either.

"I wish you'd speak to me in German some, you know," he was quick to blurt, as he yanked his legs up sideways onto the couch to lift himself up higher and rest his arm next to Ludwig's head, "I sure do love the way it sounds."

There was a time when he had been pretty sure that those words would never leave his lips, and yet here he sat, and he found that he didn't feel strange at all saying it. Loving the way German sounded; the old man woulda dropped dead right there. Didn't care. Those times were gone, and Ludwig was everything.

Ludwig and his voice were gonna be the death of him, he was sure of it.

Somebody get that man a radio, immediately.

And more booze.

Getting Ludwig drunk more often was certainly something he planned on doing, if only to hear that way of speaking. Couldn't ever have gotten enough of that, he was sure of it.

Another sloppy if somewhat embarrassed smile started creeping over Ludwig's face at the words, and Alfred started creeping over to Ludwig, slowly and gradually enough that he hoped that Ludwig wouldn't really notice until it was too late.

Ready to spring.

Before he really even knew it, his folded arm had pressed into the top of Ludwig's shoulder, his knee was bumping into Ludwig's leg, and his other hand and come forward and rested itself on his knee, just close enough to where if he outstretched his fingers they brushed Ludwig's pants. Only half an inch of space between them.

Alfred had every intention of eventually closing it completely, but not just yet, because Ludwig suddenly looked over at him, and Alfred was forced to a stop.

Ludwig lifted a brow, but didn't really seem to realize Alfred's game, and he abruptly said, with that slur, "Say, say, why don't you let me walk by the street anymore?"

It took a while for Alfred's bleary mind to understand what Ludwig was alluding to.

Ah.

Tipsy and red-faced, Alfred just said, simply, "'Cause it's rude."

Sure was. Rude to make Ludwig walk on the side of the street. He may not have been a romantic like Francis was, but he knew the rules of chivalry. Knew well enough what to do without really having to think about it. That came to him rather naturally, all things considered, all those motions he found himself engaging in around Ludwig. Didn't think about them, didn't really plan them too much. Just came up out of nowhere, and he always acted on anything that came to him. Ludwig just seemed to have a way of making him feel protective without trying.

Anyway, didn't want Ludwig to get hit by a car. Bastard seemed pretty unlucky. He'd probably have to start watching out for meteorites soon, unlucky as Ludwig was.

Even the thought of Ludwig getting _splashed_ was rather appalling, as neat was Ludwig was. Woulda died from shame, somehow, if that had happened. Good god! _Thinking_ about it made Alfred shudder. Woulda felt pretty damn terrible about himself. If it had been Alice he had been walking down the street and she had been splashed, the entire city would have looked at Alfred like he was the worst man in the world, for making her walk beside the street in the first place.

Why shouldn't the same be said of Ludwig?

Ludwig was still for a moment, clearly trying to gather up his words, and then he managed to say, barely, "Don't you think I can take care of myself? I wish you would... I want you to think better of me."

Took a while to understand the words, and longer to understand the meaning. Grasped it, eventually, but Alfred was hardly ashamed. Ludwig had just misunderstood the notion. Couldn't have thought any better of Ludwig if he had tried. Couldn't perfect perfection.

"I know you can take of yourself," he finally said, as they both struggled to maintain eye contact for long periods of time past their blurry vision. "I know you can. I just like doing it, is all. I'd be a jerk if I made ya walk next to the gutter. A real jerk. Don't feel bad about it, I just like doing it. I didn't mean to make ya feel bad, or nothin'. It's not like that. I just like keepin' ya safe."

Ludwig eyed him up at down, brow high and mouth a bit twisted in what could have been an attempt not to smile, and then he scoffed.

"Safe?"

Alfred felt himself leaning in, fingers pressing into the top of Ludwig's thigh without him really being aware of it.

"Mm-hm!"

Made him feel good, to think he was protecting Ludwig, in however small a way. Protecting him from the street, from the rain, from falling down the steps and breaking his neck. All of them were certainly things Ludwig was perfectly capable of protecting himself from, he knew that, but he liked the way it made him feel, so he did it anyway.

Ludwig was silent again, but only for a second, and then he smiled.

Smiled.

Not those little polite smiles he gave when he shook hands with Matthew, not one of those small ones he gave when Alfred did something dumb. Not one of the embarrassed ones he had been giving all night long. Rather, an actual smile. A real smile. Enough to make his eyes squint, enough to make the corners of his nose crinkle, enough to show his teeth, enough to make his cheeks suddenly prominent. So much more than just a smile, though; everything about Ludwig seemed to light up with it. More than a smile. His brow raised as much as his lips, his pale eyes shone from beneath his paler lashes, his flushed face grew redder from the happiness he obviously felt. His shoulders fell. Relaxation. Contentment. Absolutely and utterly honest.

Ludwig.

The real one, hidden under there beneath all of that seriousness and gloom. The one that had been stifled, the one that had been beaten down, the one that had been shoved beneath the rug.

Ludwig.

A real smile.

Everything Alfred had ever wanted, everything he had striven so hard for these past months. Everything he had worked so damn hard to earn. Everything he had given his all for. Worth it, worth every bit of it, worth all of the struggle. A beautiful sight. The most gorgeous thing Alfred had ever seen in his entire, miserable life.

Sunlight.

Ludwig's real smile.

Suddenly, the world seemed like a beautiful place.

"Oh," Ludwig finally said, simply, as Alfred crept ever closer.

Wanted to be closer, closer to that smile, and closer to Ludwig.

The stars outside may have been bright, but they couldn't ever have compared to this human being beside of him. Brilliance.

Alfred leaned his head in ever more, so close now that Ludwig could surely feel his breath, and was quick to settle the issue with a stern, "I'm still not gonna let ya walk near the street, so ya may as well get used to it. I like you on the other side."

That time, Ludwig just said, still smiling, "Okay."

And that was that.

Once again, Alfred _doing_ had earned Ludwig's cooperation.

...wonder what else he could get away with.

Suddenly, he had crept so close that he was pressing against Ludwig's side, the gap was closed, and Ludwig was looking over at him with a high brow and something alarmingly close to a leer. Hadn't ever seen that look from stern Ludwig. Loved it. A smile and a leer, all in the same night. He'd struck gold, absolute gold. Couldn't have felt any better about himself then if he had saved the world.

Heightened all the more when Ludwig suddenly whispered, "Safe. ...you make me feel safe."

Coulda died. Coulda died, he swore it, from the happiness. Had never felt so ridiculously, simply, and unabashedly _happy_. His chest was tight. Heart racing. Jittery. Had always wanted to feel this good about himself. Had always wanted to feel worth it. Had always wanted someone to rely on him. Had always wanted someone to love him, past all of his flaws.

The jolt that went through him then was nothing short of shocking, and Alfred didn't know why he suddenly pulled himself clumsily up to his feet, nearly falling backwards in the process, and held out his hand to Ludwig down below.

That man.

Nothing had ever made him feel the way that man did.

"Say! You dance? You wanna dance?"

Didn't even give Ludwig time to answer; he had already leaned over, snatched Ludwig by the hand, and yanked him upright a bit more forcefully than he meant to. Drunk Ludwig stumbled, but caught himself by pressing his chest against Alfred's, his free hand reaching out to grab a handful of Alfred's sleeve.

Heaven.

A long second in which Ludwig seemed to be rather content to lean up against him, but then he finally pulled back, and Alfred could see the mortification on his face as he said, thickly, "No, I can't dance. Don't..." A tug backwards as Ludwig tried to disengage his hand. "I can't."

No go. Alfred held fast. He pulled Ludwig back up against him, because they were both drunk and he felt more entranced now than he ever had with anyone.

Safe.

If he made Ludwig feel safe, then he could honestly admit that the feeling was returned in equal proportions.

A reach downward, and suddenly he had both of Ludwig's hands gripped within his own, and even though Ludwig seemed terrified of dancing, he wasn't really struggling too hard to get away. Just gentle, halfhearted tugs and squirming. Couldn't seem to meet Alfred's eyes, writhing as he was, but Alfred was hardly daunted.

He leaned forward, and said, "C'mon. Dance with me. I can't dance, either. I'm not gonna laugh at ya."

Ludwig glanced up, just for a second, but it seemed to Alfred that he had silently relented.

Didn't expect Ludwig to dance, not really, but hoped that he would at least humor Alfred and let him drag Ludwig all over the carpet for no other reason than that he could.

And Ludwig did.

Ludwig was taller than him, just a bit, but that was ideal because it made it easier for him to force Ludwig's gaze whenever he tried to look away.

The record was scratching again. Probably had been for hours. No problem. Music wasn't needed; there was always a concert up in Alfred's head whenever Ludwig was around. Ludwig wouldn't lift his feet up from the carpet, wouldn't do anything except circle around as Alfred tried to pull him along, but that was alright. Hell, this was more than he had ever expected from Ludwig, honestly. Was flabbergasted he had gotten this far at all with a guy like Ludwig.

How far they had come. Dancing together in Francis' house.

Sometimes, Ludwig glanced over at him and cracked a slanted smile, and every time he did, Alfred could feel his chest puffing out and his grip on Ludwig's hands only got all the tighter, and he started dragging Ludwig all the more quickly.

Alfred had never been prouder of himself.

And through it all, through Ludwig's constant fretting and pulling and anxiety, Alfred was pretty sure that he was just off somewhere in some beautiful dream. He'd spent entire nights dancing away crazily with girls he had just met, spent the night hours in a daze, found himself tossing and turning here and there, had found himself covered in sweat and feeling absolutely electric, ears and head pounding from the blaring music and muscles sore.

Somehow, someway, none of that excitement could have ever compared to this stupid, clumsy circling. No amount of swirling skirts and dipping girls could have compared to the simple feel of Ludwig's hands within his own. No amount of kicking legs and shoes could have compared to the uncertain shuffling of Ludwig's feet.

Alfred couldn't have said when he had let go of Ludwig's hand to put his palm on the back of Ludwig's neck.

Ludwig didn't squirm away.

At least not at first, but when Alfred pressed apparently a bit too far by trying to change the steps and get Ludwig dancing for real, Ludwig had finally deemed the whole thing a bit much and managed to escape Alfred's clutches.

But before he did, when he had wrung his hands free, Ludwig had reached up, just for a second, and had put his palm on the side of Alfred's face. Alfred meant to grab it and keep it there, but was too slow.

Exhilaration.

Ludwig fell back onto the couch, smiling and breathing through his mouth, and Alfred was quick to follow him, resuming his position and trying again to creep in without being too obvious about it.

A laugh, and a low, dazed whisper of, "I can't believe you made me do that."

As if, to Ludwig, that had been something rather grand.

Alfred smiled.

Took so little to amaze Ludwig, so little to make him embarrassed, to make him fidget. So little to make him happy. Alfred had never met such an astounding person.

Ludwig gazed over at him then, drunk as he was, and said, in a strange, rather heavy voice that Alfred had never heard before, "So, Alfred"— oh, _no_ , not his _name_ , not in that drunk German accent, not purring that fuckin 'r' like that, that was gonna drive him crazy for real—"Tell me. When a man goes through all of this trouble, what is he expecting?"

Had Alfred been honest, or brave, he would have said, 'A kiss.'

At the very _least_.

Couldn't say it. Choked.

Anyway, what had he really been expecting? For Ludwig to jump on him?

...kind of. Hoped, anyway. He had primped that bedroom for a reason. Ah, a man could dream.

Could have said, 'I expect you to keep smiling at me.' Could have said, 'I can't understand what the hell you're even _saying_ anymore, you handsome son of a bitch, so get over here.' Could have said, 'I expect you to be in _love_ with me.'

'I expect you to _see_ me, for once.'

'I expect you to feel the way I do.'

So many things he could have said.

Wanted Ludwig to be in love with him, because he was head over heels for Ludwig.

Safe.

Honestly, though, for it all, maybe he had just wanted Ludwig to smile for once. To really smile. A real damn smile. He had always wanted that. Ludwig deserved it, deserved to be happy. That had been a success, because Ludwig had smiled, and it had been as damn gorgeous as Alfred had always suspected it would be.

So, then. What did he want now?

It came up and out of his mouth before he had really even thought about it.

He turned to Ludwig, slumped on the couch beside of him, and asked, pointedly, "Are you drunk enough to tell me why you left Germany?"

That was what he wanted now. The truth. Just wanted Ludwig to trust him enough to tell him everything.

Ludwig's eyes met his own quickly, as if the question alone had knocked some sense back into him, and the look he sent Alfred was rather stern. Maybe disappointed, as if Ludwig had been expecting something else.

Didn't last long, though. Ludwig was so drunk that he couldn't even keep his gaze focused, and finally he leaned back, head tossed back on the cushion and staring up at the ceiling, and gave a great sigh.

"Oh, Alfred. I'll never be drunk enough to tell you that."

With that, Ludwig closed his eyes, and went quiet.

Alfred waited, head spinning with alcohol and wanting more than anything to press up against Ludwig and let his hands roam where they would. Kept on staring at the curve of Ludwig's neck. Tempting, certainly. That pale skin. That prominent Adam's apple. Almost couldn't focus, because of that exposed neck. Shoulda been illegal for Ludwig not to wear a full damn collar, distracting as it was for Alfred. Gonna get him in trouble one day.

Tempting.

Damn, though—his curiosity was fuckin' killing him. Had to know, just had to, and had to know now.

Ludwig's chest rose and fell, eyes shut, and Alfred wondered if he had fallen asleep. Reaching out, he plopped his hand rather clumsily down on Ludwig's shoulder, Ludwig started up from the verge of unconsciousness, and when he turned his head to look blearily at Alfred, their noses touched. Sloppily, Ludwig smiled at him. Kissing Ludwig right then and there was tempting, but something else was more so. Still, though, he felt himself pressing forward until their foreheads had bumped together. Couldn't ever get enough of the feel of Ludwig.

Insistent, he prodded, "Tell me. Please?"

"I'm not that drunk," Ludwig repeated, and Alfred felt the crinkle of his brow.

He was probably pouting, then, because Ludwig sent him another one of those strange little leers, and shook his head.

A scoff.

"Ah. What the hell?" Ludwig finally grumbled, and with an effort he pulled himself upright again, groping on the table for another glass.

Alfred leaned toward him, throat dry all of a sudden, and waited. His hand was still very much on Ludwig's shoulder, and, without him really controlling it, it ran up and into Ludwig's hair.

Soft.

Ludwig leaned back into the touch, and Alfred fell in closer beside him. Could feel Ludwig's heart, beating away in his chest. Warmth. Ludwig was so much warmer than Alfred had always imagined he would be.

Finally, Ludwig spoke again.

"Ah. Why not. I'll tell you anyway."


	18. Waltz of the Blue Butterfly

**Chapter 18**

**Waltz of the Blue Butterfly**

The fall of 1938.

October.

The orphanage was always so quiet. Never a great commotion. Even with the city of Munich bustling in full swing outside, inside there was only halfhearted calm, melancholy laughter, and the only time there was ever any real excitement in the air was when a couple stopped by to look at the children. But that wasn't as frequently as the women that worked in the orphanage might have liked, and when the Beilschmidts dropped by one cold afternoon in October, everyone held their breath.

Except Ludwig.

He hadn't even looked up at the excited chatter, choosing instead to keep his mind focused on his schoolwork, sitting alone over in the corner. And why not? He was used to being passed over; quiet, calm, and maybe a bit guarded, he simply couldn't compete with the louder, friendlier, more boisterous children that also called this orphanage home. No one ever looked at Ludwig twice, because Ludwig couldn't ever really seem to smile like the others could. Didn't know why. Something in him always stopped short.

Better not to get his hopes up. He had given up holding his breath. He'd been here since before he could remember, and sometimes it felt like he would always be here. He had stopped dreaming about parents long ago.

Who could ever want a kid that couldn't smile?

True to form, as soon as the Beilschmidts came in, tall and beautiful and blond, the man handsome with large hands, and the woman graceful and pale as snow, they made a beeline for a little girl that was giving them her best curtsy and giggling, completely missing Ludwig's existence altogether.

As usual.

But the Beilschmidts brought into the orphanage with them a rare surprise :

Their son.

It was a little unusual for couples with a child to seek out an orphan, but it hardly seemed any different. Same routine, just with an extra head. Maybe they were charitable; maybe they just couldn't have another. Didn't matter to the women, as long as they took someone home.

Ludwig only kept his pen in his hand, solving his math problems with dutiful obedience. Didn't seem to be worth the effort it took to get excited anymore. No one ever looked at him, and he didn't really blame them. He was dull. Boring. Not as eye-catching.

As _that man_ and _that woman_ looked over the smiling children, their son, older than one would have really expected for his parents to be orphan-picking, began to wander around alone. Looking as though he was as excited as they were but striving _very_ hard to conceal it, he passed over this child and that, and when he crossed the room, he came up behind Ludwig and asked, his voice deep and somewhat rough, "What'cha doin'?"

"Math," was Ludwig's simple response, and he didn't even bother to look up.

Someone talking to him. A first, but nothing worth noting.

"Need help?"

"Nope."

"Well, then. Math already? How old are you?"

"Almost six."

A silence, as if the boy were waiting for Ludwig to engage more.

Ludwig didn't.

A chair scraped the tile, and the boy sat down beside of him, propping his chin up on a balled fist and eyeing him curiously. After a second, he asked, "Don't you want to go say hello to my mom?"

Why? It hurt to get his hopes dashed.

"Not really," Ludwig said, and the boy blew air through his teeth and gave a snort. Not offended, though. Amused.

Another second of silence, and then the boy said, "You're a strange one, aren't ya!"

"So are you," Ludwig whispered back, brow low in mild annoyance, and then the boy had burst into laughter, and Ludwig finally looked up.

Startled, a little, at the sight of that boy.

Had never seen anyone quite like that, so pale that he was quite bright, blond hair so light that it was nearly white in the clouded sun, eyes a strange reddish sort of color that he had never seen and that seemed very lively, and, more than anything, it was that smile that caught Ludwig off guard. No one had ever smiled at _him_ like that. Not at him.

The most confident, charming, self-satisfied and yet friendly, beautiful smile he'd ever seen. Crooked. It lit up the world around it, or at least it lit up the world in Ludwig's head. Nothing in Ludwig's dull life had ever been as bright as that smile.

All in all, that boy had been the most amazing, wonderful thing Ludwig had ever seen. Felt mesmerized. Had never seen anyone like that.

Ludwig asked, perhaps petulantly, "Why are you so white?"

"'Cause I'm albino."

"What's an albino?"

A snort, and the boy just drawled, so casually, "Me."

Before he knew it, Ludwig was smiling, too. He hadn't smiled for such a long time that he almost felt like he didn't remember how to. Didn't even realize he was doing it at all, in fact.

"What's your name?" the boy asked, still smiling away.

"Ludwig."

Had never once been asked.

"Ludwig." The boy leaned forward, chin on his fist still, and said, in a low, amicable voice, "I'm Gilbert. Nice to meet you, Ludwig."

Gilbert.

No one had ever looked at him, let alone spoken to him.

Liked that somewhat husky voice. Liked the air of roughness that surrounded the boy's prettiness.

"You're cute," Gilbert suddenly said, quite bluntly. "You look a lot like my mom, ya know?"

...was that good? Sure hoped so.

Ludwig found himself sitting there with that boy, and the entire time that _that man_ and _that woman_ looked around, Gilbert only sat there and talked to him.

Gilbert seemed so interested in him, asking so many questions, and every so often, Gilbert would reach out a pale hand and brush it over the top of Ludwig's hair. In return, Ludwig didn't have to ask about Gilbert, because Gilbert seemed all too happy to supply information in an endless stream; that he was sixteen, that he had always wanted a little brother, that he had been more excited than his mother to come to this orphanage, and that he liked Ludwig so much that he wanted to take him home right now.

Oh.

When Gilbert went off and began to speak to his parents, Ludwig felt the first rise of perhaps foolish hope within him. No one had ever taken an interest in him before, not one single person.

_That man_ and _that woman_ came over to Ludwig shortly after, and knelt down before him.

Ludwig was so nervous, so terrified, so panicked, that all he did then was duck his head down, raise his shoulders, clasp his hands behind his back, stare at his feet, and mumble answers to questions so lowly that they were incomprehensible.

He choked.

No one had ever talked to him. He didn't know what to do. Years of watching other children charm couples, years of observing, years of watching, and still he floundered. So nervous. What if they didn't like him as much as Gilbert did? He wasn't interesting. Wasn't worth a second look. Wasn't bright, like their son.

But then Gilbert had reached out again, seeing Ludwig's anxiety, putting his hand on Ludwig's shoulder, and Ludwig found himself able to look up after that, just a little. As if Gilbert had somehow passed over a bit of that boldness.

He looked up at them, at last, and they were stunning.

_That woman_ had smiled at him the whole time, pretty blue eyes crinkled up and reaching out frequently to brush Ludwig's shoulder with gentle fingers. She lifted up his chin or lowered her own every time he faltered and looked down. _That man_ looked so strong, so friendly, not as pale as his wife or son but so handsome and comforting.

They were beautiful, all three of them, and Ludwig knew right off that they were far too beautiful for him. Hated it all the same, though, when they left, when Gilbert left. Knew it would never be, but wanted it.

Waiting. Hoping.

Days passed.

One of the women that worked in the orphanage came up to Ludwig one night, leaned in and whispered, as she put her hand upon his, "You know, a lot of people choose children that look like them. You look so much like that woman, Ludwig, so keep your hopes up!"

Whether that was true or not didn't matter. Ludwig felt hope, and that was enough, because it felt nicer than not caring. He realized, then, why the other children were so persistent; affection was addictive.

The first time anyone had ever looked at him.

After that, the Beilschmidts came once a week, to get to better know each child, but Gilbert only ever came to Ludwig, and, oh, Ludwig would have followed Gilbert all across the world, if only for that. Would have done anything Gilbert had asked of him, anything at all.

With Gilbert's intense interest grew the interest of his parents. Once, as _that man_ and _that woman_ stood over in the corner, watching Gilbert tussle Ludwig's hair, Ludwig heard _that man_ say, "I think Gilbert's already chosen for us."

Elation.

Oh, _please_. He just wanted them to pick him. Take him home.

Please take him home.

And, a few days before the start of November, they did.

Gilbert came up to him, utterly beaming, and took his hand and told him that _that man_ and _that woman_ were taking him home. Home. Hadn't ever thought he'd have a home. Absolute and utter disbelief. Couldn't believe that he had been chosen, couldn't _believe_ that, of all those children, that they had picked him. Him. Why him? No one had ever even looked at him. What had they seen in him?

Oh, he would have done _anything_ for Gilbert, anything, for choosing him like that. For giving him a life.

Ludwig grabbed up his things, what little he had, hands shaking so badly that the women had to help him, and when he held Gilbert's hand and walked out of the orphanage for good, the women urging him on with kind words, he smiled again.

Outside.

Going home, for the first time ever. Didn't even know what a home was, but suddenly had one all the same.

He clung to Gilbert's hand for dear life, and when they sat together in the backseat of the car, Gilbert threw an arm around Ludwig's shoulders and pulled him up to his chest. The sound of Gilbert's rough voice as he muttered away, the whole drive.

Ludwig loved Gilbert, he knew that immediately.

The duration of the ride was truly spent wondering what a home really was. Must have been nice; everyone wanted one. Maybe it meant having his own room. Maybe it meant a new name.

Home.

Looking out of the window of the car when they reached the little town of Dachau, Ludwig had caught sight of his 'home'. When they pulled into the drive, Ludwig had just gawked upwards. Just a normal house, two-stories but not that large, a small, quaint house for a small, quaint family, but to Ludwig it seemed very much like a castle.

Felt like a castle. Felt like magic, in every way. Still couldn't believe it. Everything he had ever wanted.

Home.

And then they were no longer _that man_ and _that woman_. They were "father" and "mother", so they said.

He didn't know what those things were, but his "mother" stroked his hair frequently, and his "father" lifted him up so that he could mark off the days on the advent calendar. That must have meant something, and whatever it was, Ludwig loved it right off.

He had his first Christmas soon after, his first real Christmas; the first time he had ever received a present. Ludwig had been astounded by that, he really had been, someone setting a present into his hands. But Ludwig had realized quickly enough that the presents didn't even mean anything, not really. How could they, when there were people around that seemed to love him?

Being loved. How strange.

Time dragged, then, but not in an awful way. In a strange, lulling creep. As if, now that he could be happy, something in Ludwig had saw fit to stop the clock and bask in this newfound attention.

Days felt like years. He felt older than he was. He felt the world shift beneath his feet.

And all because Gilbert had seen him.

Nothing had ever felt halfway as surreal as Gilbert's adoration.

Gilbert was with him every second of every day that he could be. As the new year rang in and the snows deepened, Ludwig finally found his place, and fell into a routine life, and he loved every single second of it. He loved waking up in the morning with Gilbert's strong hands running through his hair. He loved going downstairs and seeing a woman in a kitchen cooking him breakfast. He loved walking to school and knowing that there would be someone waiting when he got home. He loved having a man who would sit down with him in front of the radio and help him with his schoolwork.

He loved them all.

All those years, laying in bed and wondering what it would be like when he finally had parents. What it would feel like. What it would look like. How it would change the way he saw everything.

Better than anything he could have ever hoped for. Hadn't ever thought it would feel like this.

He had always wondered what it would be like to have a "mother" and a "father", and it was every bit as gratifying as he could have ever hoped for.

Often, at night, before it was time to go to bed, his "mother" sat him on her lap, smoothing his hair with her pale, gentle hands, and smiled down at him, letting her hands run down his face and back up.

"You're beautiful," she always said, and Ludwig rested his head on her chest and loved everything about her. He loved the way her hands felt. He loved her smile. He loved her eyes. He loved the air of gentleness that surrounded her.

More than anything, he loved the way they made him feel, all of them.

Wanted.

And by the time the snow began to melt, they were just mother and father. Gilbert was brother.

Ludwig figured out then, finally, what a home was :

A home was a bubble, and inside of it there was only love and nothing could ever hurt you.

Inside of it, Ludwig was never unwanted.

* * *

The spring of 1939.

Warm air. The smell of the outside world coming to life. The first time Ludwig had been outside of the orphanage for the blooming of the plants. By the time the bees had come back out, Ludwig found himself constantly at Gilbert's side.

They were always together. Always hand in hand. Always side by side.

Together.

Spring had nothing on brotherhood, and no amount of daydreaming had ever prepared Ludwig for the way Gilbert made him feel.

The flowers bloomed and the leaves of the trees were vibrant green. When the weather was warm and clear, Gilbert sometimes took him out walking around town. If there was no sign of rain, Gilbert would even take him out into the woods behind their house, and even though sometimes Ludwig tripped and scraped his knees, his brother was there to pull him to his feet and set him straight.

They came once to a hill, surrounded by deciduous trees, white bark gleaming in the sun, and from upon a great rock Ludwig could see a trail of white smoke in the distance. He pointed to it, head high.

"What's that?"

"A train," Gilbert had said, keeping a hand looped in the belt of Ludwig's pants, perhaps nervous that he would lose his balance and fall.

"Where's it going, do you think?"

"Why? You like trains?"

"I don't know," he responded, thoughtfully. "I've never really seen one. Some of the other boys had little metal ones, though. I always wanted one."

"Well," Gilbert had said, taking his hand and pulling him down from the rock, "If you like trains, I'll get you one. A good one, though, not like that train. That train carries prisoners. Way back there, where ya can't see, there's a big prison! All the bad people get sent there, to keep the country safe."

Ludwig had gaped wide-eyed into the distance, and it was with awe that he asked, as Gilbert led him away, "But what if they get loose? It's so close to home! It's right behind us!"

Gilbert laughed and reached down, ruffling his hair affectionately.

"That's why I'm here to protect you, ya big dummy! As long as I'm around, nobody will hurt you. I promise I won't ever leave you alone."

Ludwig had accepted that declaration without question, and in the comfort of his home and Gilbert's protective sphere, Ludwig forgot all about the prison behind the town. Nothing to fear.

How could anyone be scared, when someone like Gilbert was always hovering nearby?

Days and weeks passed, and with each of them Gilbert always seemed to find new ways to make Ludwig fall in love with him. Blurs and colors, as Gilbert leapt out from behind trees and made him shriek, chases around the yard, stupid stories and fairy tales, and constant promises. Gilbert made so many promises, had so many plans, said things all the time without even thinking about it.

One promise stood out more than the others. Gilbert said it all the time; 'I won't ever leave you.'

Ludwig had believed him. Ludwig had trusted him. Ludwig had been unquestioning. Blindly loyal. Ludwig had had confidence in Gilbert.

Shouldn't have.

Gilbert had broken his promise.

* * *

The winter of 1940.

Ludwig woke up one night to the sound of screaming.

Everything had been alright until that night; they were mother and father and Gilbert, and this house was home. Ludwig had fallen into place. Had finally felt as if he had always been there. Felt like he was truly a member of this family. Everyone had seemed happy. His mother was as gorgeous as she had always been, and had been burning steadily brighter. His father seemed calm; happy. Gilbert had burst into adulthood quite well, broad and handsome and masculine. Very gruff, very bold, very careless.

Reckless.

But, no matter how big or intimidating he became, how aggressive his voice, Gilbert still plopped down on the floor and hauled a struggling Ludwig into his lap. Still ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. Still came into his room in the morning and woke him up by running fingers through the strands of his hair.

Ludwig still loved Gilbert, still saw him as beautiful, and always would.

Then the screaming had come, completely out of nowhere.

So loud that it had jolted him awake, and he had known right off that it had been Gilbert's voice that had permeated his room. But when Ludwig had come halfway down the stairs, creeping as silently as possible despite his thudding heart, it had been his father that was screaming.

" _No_! You can't! Absolutely _not_! I forbid it!"

Had never heard his father scream before, not ever, and the sound of it alone had frozen Ludwig on the stairs in fright. His father's smooth, soft, gentle voice turned high and terrifying when he screamed. He could hear his mother, warbling gently in the background as she perhaps tried to calm things.

And then Gilbert's voice again, so booming and rough, as he screamed back, "I'm eighteen! I'm an adult, and I'm going! You can't stop me. It's what I want to do!"

"You live in my house! You're my child! You don't do anything without getting my permission! Nothing! Nothing! Do you understand? Nothing! Retract it!"

Gilbert's loud, brash, unbending retort, so loud that it hurt Ludwig's ears even from above.

" _I won't_!"

An awful silence.

His father retorted, less fiercely and more miserably, "But you're my son. How could I let you go to war?"

War?

The world stopped. Everything fell still, in Ludwig's mind more than in the living room. War. Barely even knew what war was. Knew that it had been going on for a while now, knew that it was bad, knew that people got hurt in war, but he had never seen it and never experienced it and so it had never really bothered him all that much.

But Gilbert was going to war, and that meant that Gilbert could be hurt.

Gilbert's softer statement, "It'll be alright. You've got Ludwig."

A quiet sob from his mother.

Ludwig returned to his room, and buried his face in his pillow.

Gilbert meant _everything_. He couldn't even remember life without Gilbert. Gilbert had chosen him. Couldn't live without Gilbert, couldn't, because Gilbert was a part of him. Didn't want Gilbert to leave, to go anywhere, didn't want Gilbert to go to war because war was something awful.

Misery.

The next morning, when Gilbert woke him up, Ludwig just stared up at him, on the verge of crying, and didn't say a word. Gilbert's sad smile; as if, somehow, Gilbert knew that Ludwig knew.

Breakfast was silent.

Gilbert was the only one that ate, as everyone else picked and prodded and avoided eye contact. Ludwig stared down at his plate, and felt his stomach churning.

Ludwig looked up at Gilbert, shortly after, and asked, "Why don't you want to stay here with me?"

An awful contortion of hurt on Gilbert's face. A sharp inhale from his mother, and Gilbert opened his mouth but could seem to find no answer. His father just sat there, staring blankly ahead, and when his mother started crying, Ludwig got up from the table and went back upstairs. Gilbert followed him, sitting there on the edge of the bed as Ludwig kept his back to him.

After a long stretch of silence, Gilbert finally rumbled, so quietly, "I love you so much, kiddo. That's why I gotta go. Remember? I told you that I'd always keep you safe. That's why I have to go. So I can make sure nothing happens to you."

Didn't make sense to Ludwig. Just wanted Gilbert to stay.

So Ludwig just said, "But you said that you'd never leave me, too. You said that, too."

Gilbert was quiet.

Gilbert couldn't _leave_.

But he would.

Two weeks later, tall and proud and confident, Gilbert stood in the kitchen, bag over his shoulder and smiling. Ludwig did not look at him then, and it was with a certain melancholy that Gilbert knelt down before him, and took his hands, saying, gently, "I won't be gone long. I promise I'll come back!"

Liar.

Ludwig shook his head, and muttered, "You're lying. You broke your promise already. You said you wouldn't ever leave."

Gilbert's confident smile was gone and he looked for a moment as though he would burst into tears, and it was with a thick, shaking voice that he whispered, "I have to go. I have to keep you safe. That's why I _have_ to go now, but I'll come back. I swear I'll come back."

He leaned forward and kissed Ludwig's forehead swiftly, and then he stood.

His mother's comforting hands on his shoulders, Ludwig watched as Gilbert walked out of the door, his father turned away and staring at the wall to save his dignity.

When Gilbert started to shut the door, though, it was too much, so much, and Ludwig bolted out of his mother's hands and straight to the door, catching it at the last second and latching onto Gilbert as hard as he could, and when he buried his face in Gilbert's stomach he was sobbing.

Didn't want him to leave. Gilbert had chosen him. How could he just leave?

Hands on the back of his neck, and when Gilbert knelt down before him again, this time Gilbert _was_ crying, and Ludwig hated that as much as anything else because Gilbert didn't cry. Not that fearless man.

"Please," Gilbert said, voice rougher than ever and shaking, " _Please_. I promise I'll come back, Lutz. I promise. It's gonna be alright. You'll see."

Ludwig clung to Gilbert's shirt, stubbornly, and it was only when his father came out and pried Ludwig off that Gilbert was able to leave at all. His mother burst into tears when the door shut, and Ludwig turned his eyes to the floor.

Promises.

All Gilbert ever did was lie.

Ludwig had been so upset that he had forgotten to tell Gilbert that he loved him.

He never came back.

* * *

The summer of 1941.

Things had been so quiet lately. Not as different, though, as Ludwig had always expected. Gilbert was so important to Ludwig, so central to his entire existence, that the thought of Gilbert being gone seemed rather earth-shattering. Ludwig had thought that the world would literally stop spinning without Gilbert, but it didn't. Life went on, no matter what.

It hurt, absolutely, but his father and mother were still there. They still smiled at each other, they still hugged when they parted ways, and they still coddled Ludwig as much as ever. More, even. Ludwig received somehow more attention now that Gilbert was gone, even though he had always received ample attention, and sometimes it was actually quite overwhelming.

His mother was always hovering around him, always making sure he was alright and happy, always there when he turned around, and sometimes she came and knocked on the door when he had been in the bathroom for too long, just to check in. Ludwig didn't mind the attention, not at all, but it was disheartening in a way because through it he could see how much they loved Gilbert and how much they missed him, and that they were using Ludwig as a surrogate in his absence.

Ludwig tried hard to be enough for his mother, for his father, and strove to be as much their son as Gilbert was. Gilbert was gone, so Ludwig tried to make them happy in the meanwhile. He tried, he really did.

But it wasn't enough, it seemed.

Their smiles weren't as bright as they had been once, and Ludwig knew that it was because he wasn't their real son. They loved him, he knew that, he really did, knew that they adored him and that they would give their lives for him, but somehow it wasn't the same. He didn't share their blood.

Days passed with his mother staring longingly out of the kitchen window and his father tuning the radio, hovering constantly on the news and always with a paper in hand.

Waiting.

All they could do was watch as the war picked up pace, and Ludwig would stand outside at night sometimes and stare up at the stars, wondering if Gilbert could see any from where he was. If Gilbert was thinking about him. If Gilbert even remembered any of the promises he had made.

Wondering, often, if Gilbert was even still alive.

He woke up alone now. No more fingers in his hair. No murmuring. Just silence and cold air.

When Gilbert's first letter had come home, Ludwig had hung there so breathlessly as his father read it aloud. Such relief, such joy. Happiness. They received a letter every month, more or less, and Ludwig always waited endlessly for them and then took them upstairs and placed them under his pillow.

Close as he could get to Gilbert, until he came home.

Everyone was quiet nowadays. Sometimes, when his father came home from work, his eyes were red and bleary. Sometimes, when his mother was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor, tears would fall down into the water beneath her. Ludwig could only watch them, and although he wanted to offer words of comfort, he really did, what could he even say? Nothing he could think of even seemed to matter, and it felt to him as if it wouldn't matter to them, either.

He stayed silent.

And then one day, in the middle of all that wondering, all that waiting, all that hoping, all that fretting, there was a knock on the door.

A lurch of awful, almost painful excitement.

Ludwig had looked up from his perch upon his father's knee, and his mother had been the one to go to the door and open it, gently. Ludwig raised himself up as high as he could, hoping against all hope that it was Gilbert. That Gilbert had come back, as he had sworn.

He hadn't.

Rather, another soldier had come in his stead, standing there in the doorframe as still and silent as a statue, and then he suddenly removed his cap, and everything felt so slow then, because Ludwig's father gripped him by the waist, set him on the ground, and whispered, "Go upstairs."

Disappointment. Ludwig hadn't understood, then, why his father had sent him away.

But Ludwig obeyed, as he always did, and crept upstairs as he tried to look and listen in and be nosy without being obvious. Wished soon enough that he hadn't, wished he hadn't hung there, wished he hadn't seen the soldier pull a letter from his breast.

The letter was placed into his mother's trembling hand.

And Ludwig wished, above all else, that he hadn't heard her sudden, piercing wail of despair. Wished he hadn't seen her fall to her knees, wished he hadn't seen his father kneel down and grab her up and hold her to his chest, wished he hadn't heard his father's muffled cry, wished he hadn't seen them like that, wished he hadn't heard them, wished he didn't _know_.

He knew.

They didn't have to tell him, didn't have to explain, didn't have to say it aloud.

He knew that Gilbert was never coming back.

She cried and cried, and his father had cried, too. Ludwig had been too numb to cry.

His father tried to be strong, and pretended. Gilbert was only declared missing in action, he had said. Had gotten caught by the Russians, and being caught didn't always mean being dead. His father held out hope. His mother didn't.

Gilbert was dead, she said.

Ludwig just felt dazed.

He wanted Gilbert.

Another broken promise.

Still, though, even though it was stupid, Ludwig still waited for letters to come.

None ever did.

Later on that year, when it was getting cold and the world was becoming more hectic and difficult even in their small town, his father went into the city and signed himself over to the state, as Gilbert had. His duty, he had said, even though he didn't want to leave.

The war had somehow become more than a war; it felt as if the entire world had suddenly gone _crazy_.

Ludwig walked outside with his mother, clinging to her hand, and sometimes when he glanced up he could see her staring up at the skies, pale and nervous and fidgeting, and he knew that she was worried about seeing an airplane. The town wasn't the same anymore. It was quiet and tense and somehow duller. Drearier. People didn't smile anymore. The food was different, not terribly so but enough for even Ludwig to know that something was amiss. There was less of it, less variety, and sometimes things just tasted strange. His mother did the best she could, she did, but it was still disheartening to Ludwig to see the way her face fell when she would look around the kitchen and realize how little there was.

She looked so _sad_.

And then his father had to leave, because his father was strong and healthy and young, and Ludwig hated seeing his mother crying that night before he had to go, hated it, because he had never seen her cry that hard, not like that, not even when that letter had come. She cried so hard that she couldn't breathe, held up in a ball in his father's arms as she hyperventilated and bawled and gasped. Ludwig could only watch, as helpless as always.

The day his father left, like Gilbert had so long ago, was far beyond terrifying. Knowing that he might break his promise, just like Gilbert had, and not come back. Seeing his father stop still and then look over his shoulder at Ludwig from the drive. That awful smile. One last look, one last stare, one final glance at everything that they had once been. His father stared at him for so long then.

Then he was gone.

They had all been together, once.

Gilbert was gone.

* * *

The fall of 1942.

It was just the two of them now. Just his mother and himself. The house was quiet, so still and haunting, so empty, but his mother tried to stay strong and brave. She was frail, but somehow always possessed such strength, so much more than Ludwig had. Still, he slept in her bed now, because she just cried all night when she was alone. She clenched him in the dark, but he could feel the fading of her spirit.

In the mornings, when they sat together at the kitchen table, she would sometimes turn her eyes to the window, watching the trees swaying in the breeze, and Ludwig could sense that she was trying so hard to make sure that he didn't see her crying.

He saw.

In some ways, Ludwig felt inadequate. Not quite enough.

Not enough for her.

She loved him, he knew she did, and he would have done anything for her, but he knew, somehow, that he couldn't ever have taken the place of Gilbert. She wanted her real son back. Wanted her husband back.

Gilbert was never coming back, and Ludwig could have never replaced him.

He helped her around the house now, in the absence of his father, and often when he was outside in the yard, she would stand in the door and watch him, and sometimes she would smile, if only a little. Would have been so much more beautiful, that smile, if she hadn't constantly broken it to look up in worry at the sky.

They lived in constant fear of planes.

Ludwig never felt brave, never, but tried not to show fear because he didn't want to stress his mother any more than she already was. Every day, in fact, she seemed somehow smaller to him. Thinner. Paler. As if, somehow, she were vanishing right before his eyes. Her love never faded, though, and she still held him to her chest and kissed his forehead and told him that she loved him.

He tried to be the one now that made her feel safe and loved, as she had done for him. They were always together, every moment that it was possible, and on good days she would reach out and run her hands through his hair to smooth it back. He did his best, pushed onward, took over his father's role, and tried to be the one to support.

But it was harder and harder every day. The planes loomed even when they weren't there, and then there was the ever decreasing supply of food and goods, simple things that weren't ever noticeable until they were gone.

Sometimes the stores in town just ran out food, and Ludwig hated when he had to go back to her empty-handed. Felt so ashamed somehow, even if it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't been able to procure anything.

War.

It wasn't fair. Ruined everything. Had taken everything away from this home that had been so perfect.

She just ran her hand over his face when he came back defeated, looking so sad, and Ludwig wished, more than anything, that war didn't exist.

She had been so happy not too long ago.

Wished that he could have been enough for her.

* * *

The spring of 1943.

Sometimes, if the wind was blowing in a certain direction when Ludwig happened to be outside, there was an awful, foul stench that drifted in from the forest beyond. Never could figure out what it was, and Ludwig didn't really want to think too much about it.

Other things to worry about.

Life was suddenly so much harder than he had imagined it would be, now that Ludwig was forced to take his father's place. He was only ten, and yet now he was working, really working, chopping firewood and carrying heavy loads, and often he went into town with his mother as they tried to do whatever odd jobs they could find to make a little money.

Everything was scarce now, not just food. Clothing, sundry items, soap.

In the distance, those blares of sirens.

Ludwig looked out at the forest sometimes, and wished, more than anything, that his father would just come home.

And then, one beautiful, sunny day, he did.

For the last time.

The soft knock on the door, one morning, and Ludwig had straightened up like a board at the table, eyes wide in fright and barely breathing. Absolutely terrifying, that knock, because the last time it had only brought devastation. Couldn't handle losing his father, too. Couldn't. Was sure that he couldn't have dealt with that misery, not now, not so soon after losing Gilbert. Had only had them for such a short time, his mother and father. Wouldn't have been right, if they had been taken away now as Gilbert had been.

His mother stood there in the kitchen, cloth hanging in her limp fingers, still as a statue and just as breathless, and she stared at the door with the widest eyes Ludwig had ever seen. Seemed frozen there in place, seemed absolutely stuck, and even from where he was Ludwig could see her hands start to tremble.

Another knock.

Ludwig finally gathered up his courage and went quietly to the door, gripping the doorknob in his hands. A deep breath, and then he opened it up, not because he was brave, but rather because he wanted to spare his mother the sight of an unwelcome stranger.

But it was no stranger that stood before Ludwig.

His father stood there, looking paler than ever and exhausted and different and yet somehow still so amazingly beautiful, and Ludwig hadn't been able to control the yelp of delight that had come from his throat as he leapt forward and straight into his father's arms.

A face in his hair.

A soft, pale gasp from behind, as his mother came back down to earth, and even though she didn't move and didn't rush forward, Ludwig could hear her sobbing, and knew that what he felt then could have never been compared to what his mother felt. How extraordinary that must have been for her, to see the man that she had fallen in love with standing once again before her when her son never would.

Ludwig's father left him soon after, enveloping his wife in his arms, and Ludwig slept in his own room that night.

That was the only night, the one and only night, that Ludwig felt as though his mother had forgotten he existed entirely, and he didn't begrudge her that. Not that one night. He was happy for her. Happy for them. Happy to have regained some sort of semblance of family. Some calm. Some normalcy.

Happy that his father had come back.

Like all else in his unlucky life, it didn't last.

One week. That was all. Just one week, that his father had come home. One miserable, pathetic little week.

Then his father had to leave again, and, as he had that time with Gilbert, Ludwig protested. He clung stubbornly to his father and refused to let go. A shake of his head, a frown, and even when his father knelt down and began to actually pry Ludwig's fingers off, he refused to budge.

And when his father looked up at him through pale lashes, sharp nose almost hiding his smile, he just said, "I can't come back if you won't even let me go."

Another stubborn shake of Ludwig's head, and this time he whispered, in a thin whine, "It's not fair."

Not fair. None of this was fair. Nothing had ever been fair. War wasn't fair. War wasn't right. Gilbert had been the most wonderful, beautiful thing Ludwig had ever seen, and war had taken him away. For what? What was the point of any of it? Didn't understand. Couldn't comprehend.

His father pulled Ludwig to his chest and murmured, "I know it's not fair. The world isn't fair, and I'm sorry that I can't make it that way for you. You just have to be strong. You can't change the world. You just have to do the best you can in it. Take the world as it is, and you'll be alright. I'll be back. Do your best, alright?"

Didn't want to.

Another gentle pry of his fingers, and that time, inexplicably, Ludwig felt himself burst into tears, sobbing so hard that he had to hang his head and breathe through his mouth just to keep standing.

One final whisper.

"You're my son, you are, and I love you. I'll come back for you."

Then, as before, he was gone.

But that time, that time, despite his proclamation, he didn't.

Like Gilbert before him, he never came back.

* * *

The summer of 1944.

That awful letter. That medal. They had come in the mail, those devastating notes, that stale, lifeless apology. Those weak attempts at comfort. Nothing could have softened that blow, to be fair, but Ludwig had found it cruel all the same that his mother had had to open up a letter to find out that her husband had been killed.

His father was gone.

She didn't cry then at first, not as she had the other times. Just stood there, that medal in her hand, and was quiet. Ludwig had been the one to pass the night crying. She lied down on the couch, held the medal to her chest, and didn't say a word. She didn't cry. Ludwig didn't understand how badly she had shut down until he came down the next morning and she was still there, still awake and yet still unmoving.

It took Ludwig a long hour of murmuring and caressing before she finally woke up. In a way, he regretted it, because then she started crying, and she didn't stop for hours.

Ludwig just held her, and, as his father had told him, he just tried his best.

Harder every day.

Everything was falling apart.

Sirens shrieking in the distance. The awful sound of that warning of bombs. The shrill alarm that could mean planes above.

The schools had closed. Food was harder and harder to come by.

Ludwig sat at home now, as his mother buried her face in the couch and didn't move. He took care of the house, as best he could, trying so hard to ignore the sirens whenever they went off. Couldn't stop that terror, though, that rushed up every time that godawful whirring started, and then the panic that overtook when the shrill shrieking came after. Hated those sirens. Scared him more than anything else. Every time they started whirring up, his mother leapt upright, lunged over to wherever Ludwig happened to be, snatched him up in her arms, dragged him into the nearest corner, and they huddled down, her arms around him and his face pressed into her chest.

Terrifying minutes, waiting to see if they were being bombed.

Hadn't ever thought any of this would come to pass. Hadn't ever thought this would ever be a possibility.

The country was dissolving beneath their feet.

Soldiers came knocking on the door one day, and the next thing Ludwig knew, the town had been called to a meeting, women and children alike, and were informed that everyone was obligated to defend the state.

Every German citizen was suddenly a soldier, if only in name, whether they wanted to be or not.

When Ludwig walked his mother back home, she went into her bedroom, opened the closest, and took one of his father's old shirts into her hands. When she came back down, a while later, she sat down, clenching the shirt in her lap, and sat quite still, chin held high and looking a bit determined. As if, despite her misery, she was proud to take up where her husband had left off.

Maybe she had just needed something to distract her. Something to focus on. Anything to take her mind off of the world around her.

When she turned to Ludwig, hours later, her distant eyes had cleared up, for the first time in months. Ludwig was grateful for that, more than anything, even when she said, "We can do it, Ludwig. It'll be alright."

Didn't feel alright, nothing did, but her determination had given him some, and so he nodded. Was just so glad to _see_ her, to really see, after she had been gone for so long. To see a little bit of life in her eyes.

His worst fear was of having to hold a gun on foreign soldiers that came charging in, but maybe it was best not to worry too much about it until everything was finally upon them.

The months came and went, but they didn't ever need to take up arms.

Seemed that every day, though, the Americans crept closer.

* * *

The spring of 1945.

April.

The Americans arrived in Dachau.

Gunfire and screaming. They could hear it from inside the house.

His mother had panicked, not knowing what to do, as the bombs exploded in the distance and the guns went off. The others had taken up arms as they were supposed to, perhaps; Ludwig couldn't say, because his mother had grabbed him by the back of the neck and pressed his face into her chest, trying in some odd way to shelter him as she dragged him into the kitchen.

He could only clench her dress and hope to god that he wouldn't have to pick up his father's gun.

Didn't want to fight anyone.

The Americans didn't come straight into town at first, because they had gone to the prison out beyond the forest. They had gathered up all of the soldiers there, all of them, lined them up, and shot them.

They shot the dogs, too.

And then, after they were done in the camp, the Americans came into town.

No resistance, not really. As much as his mother had panicked and shut down, so had everyone else. A few defiant ones barred their doors and windows, but the Americans had hardly been deterred, breaking down every single door in town that didn't open willingly. No one fought them. Everyone was so tired and scared and demoralized; why bother?

When they came to _his_ door, Ludwig just stood stark still in the kitchen, immobilized by terror, and his mother had started bolting around back and forth, too frightened to stay still and yet too scared to really do anything. She clenched her hands in her hair, sobbing away, and every now again a high-pitched whine escaped her lips.

Fierce knocking, banging on the door.

His mother didn't open, still pacing here and there in a panic, breathing through her mouth.

Muffled voices.

The door was kicked open shortly after, and soldiers burst in.

Ludwig found himself grabbing the the edge of the table in fear. Terror, absolute terror. Hadn't ever been so scared in his life as he was then, standing helplessly on the wrong end of those rifles, those soldiers barging in like that, screaming as loud as they could. The hair on his arms stood up on end. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Oh, god, to stare down the barrels of those rifles.

His mother burst into tears and shrieks when a soldier grabbed her by the arm, and Ludwig had only been able to watch as she brought her free hand up, curled it into a fist, and brought it down on the soldier's chest. Hardly threatening, as frail as she was, but the soldier still wrenched her around and started dragging her.

A hand on his arm.

Ludwig didn't struggle. Too scared to even move. Barely breathing as he was. He didn't fight, didn't even lift a hand, and yet still one of the soldiers had still hit him brutally on the back with the end of his rifle to get him out of the door. Pain, dulled by the terror.

They were furious, it seemed, even in victory. Did they know about the order for citizens to fight against them? Was that why they were being so forceful, even with the women?

They forced him and his mother out of the house, wrenching his mother by her arm and forcing Ludwig out with the butt of the rifle, and they had no choice but to fall in line and follow the soldiers down the street. Everyone in town was there, everyone, in one long line, as the Americans rounded them all up and started marching them.

God, _marching_ them, Ludwig didn't know to where, and was sure then that they were going to die.

As they stumbled along, Ludwig was jostled by another citizen and fell a bit out of line and to the side, and a soldier hit Ludwig in the back with the rifle again, hard as he could, and suddenly his mother had stopped sobbing.

Ferocity.

His gentle mother, always so sweet, was the one to turn to that soldier, the one to grab the butt of that rifle and shove it away, a horrible look on her face as her thin shirt ruffled in the breeze, the one to grab Ludwig and keep him away from the gun. The one to brace her legs and shoulders and stand up to those men, letting them know without words that laying hands on her child wasn't going to happen without a fight, no matter how weak she may have been.

She had been beautiful then, breathtakingly so, and Ludwig had been mesmerized by the sight of her as she stared those soldiers down. Ludwig wished then that he had been able to be half as brave as she was. He was so stupefied and panicked that everything in him seemed to have shut down.

His mother put her hands on Ludwig's shoulders, taking handfuls of the fabric of his shirt, and kept a death-grip upon him the entire time so as not to lose him for a second. Keeping him safe, as best she could. His mother's hands gripped him the entire time. Didn't let go of him for a second, even as they were marched out of town.

Ludwig looked around, dazedly, and saw a few children he recognized from school, being led along just as he was, their mothers keeping tight grips on them. Everyone looked so _tired_. So exhausted.

The soldiers were shouting at them, screaming, forcing them ever along. The buildings gave way to trees, they were marched suddenly into the forest, and with every step they took, there was a stomach-churning smell. It grew ever stronger the more the Americans forced them onward.

Overwhelming.

That _smell_ —oh, that smell, the most awful thing he'd ever known. His mother had given in, and lifted one hand from Ludwig's shoulder to cover her nose, for all the good it would do, as awful as it was.

They could see in the distance, suddenly, a train. Sitting there abandoned on the track, a long line of train cars, and god, Ludwig had to squint his eyes because the horrendous stench was making them sting and water. Had never known a smell like that.

The soldiers ordered them suddenly to a halt. For a miserable, horrifying second, as the soldiers circled around them, Ludwig wondered if maybe they were all going to be shot. But no; instead, the soldiers started screaming again, and it was clear to Ludwig by then that there was something in that train that the soldiers wanted every single one of them to see, and they were forced once more into a single-file line to walk past that train in turn.

Oh, he didn't _want_ to know, he didn't, didn't want to see what they were forcing them all to look at, because the smell of it alone was making him dizzy, so nauseous, and he couldn't breathe for it.

It was almost their turn.

The train was derailed, crooked, the doors halfway open, and Christ almighty, the _smell_ of it—

His mother put her hand over her mouth and nose, and Ludwig could hear her gagging. He couldn't even process it, that smell. Burned there into his mind. Had never experienced anything like that. Could never have tried to describe it.

He didn't want to _see_ , didn't want to go near, and suddenly his mother tried to twist Ludwig around and hide his face in her blouse, but the soldiers would have none of it, and Ludwig was wrenched away from her and forced in front. Another soldier shoved a rifle all the harder into his back and pushed him forward. His mother chased after him, breaking past the soldier and snatching out, her hand tangled up in his collar to keep a good grip on him. The soldier stayed stubbornly in between them, to make sure that Ludwig would see whatever he was supposed to.

And, oh. He did.

He saw.

He saw, saw it, and would never forget it, no matter how much he wanted to.

Bodies. So _many_ , so many of them, just sprawled there in the train car on top of each other, and the soldiers were pointing and shouting, but even if Ludwig had been able to understand them, he wouldn't have been able to comprehend their words, as that shock hit him and shut him down.

The train that carried prisoners. Not the kind of prison he had expected, not what Gilbert had led him to believe.

These prisoners—they were men, women, and he saw children in there, too, and he knew, he understood, realized, and the smell almost couldn't compete with the hurt, the shame, the betrayal even, that he felt then.

That smell, that godawful smell that had wafted in through the trees when the wind had blown a certain way, oh god, he knew now what it had been all along, oh, Gilbert had _lied_ to him, had lied right to his face. Maybe he hadn't really known, maybe they had told him the same thing, but some part of him had to have guessed. His mother, his father—as long as they had lived here, as much as they went out, how could they not have guessed? Had they known all along? How they been afraid to think it? To believe it?

The smell.

Ludwig stood there in absolute shock, not even feeling the rifle in his back anymore as he stared into that train car. Couldn't look away, caught still in horror. So many of them, left there in the train car to die from heat or thirst or hunger or who knew what, left there on the tracks. People, that hadn't done anything wrong.

His mother suddenly threw up there right beside of him, and Ludwig was shoved away.

The soldiers, still angry and righteously indignant at their discovery, even after having committed their own little massacre, forced every person in town, women and children alike, to take long, hard looks at the bloated corpses in the train car.

Long after they shoved his mother roughly away, long after she led him down the street, sobbing her eyes out, long after he felt himself wandering up the stairs and into his bedroom, he could still smell it.

The image was burned into the backs of his eyes.

The feel of the rifle in his back lingered there afterwards.

His mother cried all night.

That awful smell.

* * *

The fall of 1945.

She had been quiet for so long now.

So lost. So sad.

Ludwig had tried everything he could think of to get her to smile, even though he didn't feel like smiling either, but nothing worked. Nothing he did could make her smile, and sometimes he couldn't even get her to get up at all. Sometimes he had to sit there and actually force her to eat. He washed her hair sometimes, when she lied there in the bathtub and stared ahead.

She sat there, and always, always, she just stared. Clenching an old shirt in her hands.

Ludwig, to distract himself, checked the mail every single day, because the war was over now, and maybe Gilbert could come home. His mother said that Gilbert was dead, but his father had said he was only captured. Captured, maybe, just maybe, and maybe now that the war was over they would release him and he could home.

Never did.

Still, no letters came, even as Ludwig waited.

The Americans, after that awful day, had stayed in the town, patrolling here and there for whatever reason, and when they had came into each home and stripped each and every item that fell into their vague orders of denazification, his mother had just broken down all over again. They took everything that held a swastika within it, everything deemed 'offensive', and when they had come into their house, his mother just sat there and watched them as they ransacked everything.

In the end, they saw his father's Iron Cross there above the fireplace, and the Knight's Cross there on the mantle. The soldiers took them, his father's medals. Grabbed them up and threw them into a bag and _took_ him.

His mother just sat there on the couch, hung her head, and dissolved into tears. That day, Ludwig cried, too, because that was all he had left of his father.

Ludwig just didn't know what to _do_. Didn't. Had never felt so helpless. Gilbert was gone, his father was dead. No one was coming back. The war was over. They had lost. They were occupied.

What was there to ever be happy about again?

Just wanted her to be happy, but he couldn't make her that way because there was no happiness left. Just darkness around every corner. Nothing to look forward to. No sunlight. No hope. Just him and her, knowing that it would always be that way and that no one else was coming.

That winter was the longest of his life.

She wouldn't speak.

It was around then, with no one to talk to and too much time to think, that Ludwig had connected the dots and realized that all of this misfortune was, in some way, his own doing. Nothing bad had ever happened to this family until they had adopted him. Afterwards, there had been nothing but an endless spiral of misery.

If they had never brought him home, Gilbert would never have been allowed to go to war. If Gilbert hadn't gone, his father wouldn't have gone. If his father hadn't gone, his mother would have been alright.

The first step he had taken into this house had cast shadows, and they had turned everything dark.

He was bad luck.

* * *

The spring of 1946.

Ludwig had stopped expecting to see Gilbert, but hoped, still.

After a while, not too long after the snow had melted, the school finally opened again. Ludwig had just stared at his books and thought, 'What's the point?' What was the point of anything? School seemed so stupid, in light of everything that had happened. Ludwig had just been let in on the fact that he hadn't ever known anything about the world.

The world really wasn't what he had ever expected.

Didn't see the point, didn't want to go, but his mother had already set out his clothes and made him breakfast and walked him to the schoolhouse.

He hated leaving her alone.

The first day back, he just sat numbly in class in a nauseous daze, desperate to get back home to her. Couldn't even pay attention, couldn't focus, couldn't study at all, because he was only thinking of her, of what she was possibly doing there all alone. She didn't do well on her own. Couldn't leave her alone. Not alone. She needed someone there with her. He had to keep her safe, as she had done for him.

In that, as in everything else, Ludwig failed miserably.

Two weeks after school had resumed, Ludwig came home to find her sitting on the steps outside, chilly as it was, in her favorite white dress.

White flowers on the trees, their petals drifting to the ground like snow. A bright, clear blue sky.

Her pale hair lit up white in the sun, her dress blowing in the breeze.

Red lipstick.

Her hair was made-up, curled and pinned perfectly atop her head. Her hands were clasped neatly in her lap, and Ludwig had fallen still at the sight of her. She was beautiful. She always was, always had been. Something else struck him still that day, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Couldn't have said why. She was beautiful, but something about her then had seemed so wrong.

Felt so off.

She hadn't bothered in years to care for her appearance, not one time, and even though it made him a little nervous, he was just so _happy_ , so happy, to see her trying. To see her giving effort, to see that she had actually gotten up and decided to do something.

He finally walked up to her, and it felt as though it had taken her years to realize that he was standing there in front of her.

She looked up at him, as if through mist, and said, rather dazedly, "Oh. Ludwig, you've gotten so big. You'll be a man soon, you know. You won't need a mommy anymore, huh?"

Those words had struck him as off and wrong as everything else, but then she reached up a pale hand, put it upon his cheek, and something in her seemed to clear up.

A smile.

"You're so beautiful. I'm so proud of you."

He had only been thirteen. Hardly a man. But she was smiling and speaking, for once, so he grabbed her hand and helped her to her feet.

The next day, she wore the same dress, and sat on the steps again.

She sat there everyday, and Ludwig started wondering if she sat down on those steps the moment he left and stayed there until he returned. Her paleness, once from natural pigment, had started looking a little unhealthy lately. Wan.

Spring was bright and colorful; she was white and red.

One day, he came home, and she wasn't there. The steps were bare.

The front door was open, swinging in the breeze.

Ludwig had stood there for a long while, and had felt as much dread then as he ever had when the sirens had gone off. Stood there forever, it felt like, because he was too afraid to go inside. She had never left the door open like that.

He inhaled, forced himself onward, and went inside. He looked immediately to the couch, her favorite perch, but she wasn't there. He tried the kitchen, but she wasn't there, and he poked his head out of the back door, but she wasn't in the yard. He went upstairs, and looked in her bedroom. Not there. He looked in his bedroom. Not there. He went to the bathroom then, and knocked on the door.

Silence.

He was always so worried about her, and that was the only reason he pushed the bathroom door open then instead of waiting a while.

He stuck his head in, and wished he hadn't.

Red.

The first thing he saw, just red. The bathtub was full of water, almost to the brim, so red. Drops of red all over the floor. As much as Ludwig had been stunned into immobility there in front of that train car, so too was he struck down then by shock. The water was red, and he could see a hand hanging over the edge of the bathtub, so much blood on the floor beneath it.

He couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't really breathe. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, staring at that red water. Might have been hours.

Somehow, he came out of his stupor long enough to cry out and run forward, as she just lied there, so quietly in the water, her arm up and only her head there above. He slipped in the blood on the floor and fell, and was hysterical by the time he pulled himself back up. He reached out to grab her arm and try to pull her out, but she was too heavy for him to lift, and when he let her go to reposition himself she just sank back down under the water.

Her white dress was stained pink.

He started shaking her instead, trying to get a response.

He didn't know when he'd started crying, either, but knew that he was. Bawling. Didn't know what to do, what to do, because she wasn't moving, wasn't blinking, wasn't talking, just stared ahead as she always had, so pale and so quiet.

He was gasping so hard that his chest hurt, vision bleary and hardly able to see, but he somehow still made it to his feet then and ran down the stairs, flung open the door, and lunged out into the street.

Looking for someone. Anyone.

Anyone who could _help_.

Dazed and panicked, completely hysterical and so scared, he didn't know where to go, to whom, so he just ran down the street, hardly able to breathe, and looked for _anyone_.

He might have passed people and didn't even realize it for his bawling, because someone suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm, dragging him to a halt.

"Whoa! Hey, hey, come here. Stop. What's the matter?"

Confusion. Dizziness. He didn't know what to do. Couldn't breathe, couldn't, and didn't understand the person speaking to him.

"Hey! Kid, look here, look here! You okay? Oh, god— What happened? Is all that blood yours? Look up! Look at me."

Didn't understand, but Ludwig finally got his head back enough to look up, and he saw that it was a soldier that had grabbed him. One of the Americans, still patrolling the town. He looked down at Ludwig, with wide eyes of alarm, and when Ludwig just stared at him, he gave Ludwig a good shake.

"Hey! What happened to you? What's wrong? Can you understand me?"

Ludwig, staring up helplessly, just hadn't understood anything, didn't understand. He didn't speak any English, except for little words the Americans screamed sometimes, like 'Stop!' or 'Hey, you!'

But the soldier was the only one there, the only one around, so Ludwig had turned around, grabbed the soldier's arm, and cried, "You have to help her! Can't you help her? She won't get up. Please, please help her! Please don't let her die!"

The soldier stared down at him, and it was obvious that he understood as little as Ludwig did. They didn't need to talk to each other, though, and the soldier finally pointed a finger in the distance, as if to say, 'show me.'

Ludwig did, clenching the soldier's arm and dragging him down the street so fervently that the solider stumbled.

It must have been an odd sight in the town. A bawling, distraught German child covered in blood, dragging an American soldier along, and the soldier complying, letting the kid lead him along without a word.

When he got back to the house, too distressed to even speak anymore, he just led the soldier up the stairs and into the bathroom. A long, heavy silence, when the soldier stepped in and realized why Ludwig was so upset.

Ludwig clenched the soldier's shirt, and shook him a little, saying, "Please help her."

Stillness.

Then a sharp intake of breath, and suddenly the soldier had grabbed Ludwig's shoulders and pushed him gently out into the hall. The stern look on his face had clearly said, 'stay here,' so Ludwig did, sinking down to the floor and burying his head in his arms as the soldier went back inside.

Felt like eternity.

The soldier came back out, what seemed like hours later, sleeves wet and walking a bit heavily, and when Ludwig felt movement, he looked up to see that the soldier had sat down beside of him there in the hall. A hand on the back of neck and look of resignation. Ludwig knew, then, even though the soldier didn't say anything aloud.

He knew.

He'd known all along, had known the second he had seen that red water, had known, just hadn't wanted it to be true.

And, just like that, he was an orphan for the second time in his life.

And, for the second time, he burst into tears.

A long, awkward silence, as the soldier tried to think of something to do or say. Nothing really came to mind, and before long the soldier just swept over and pulled Ludwig into his arms. No hesitation; Ludwig buried his face into the soldier's uniform, and let himself cry.

Hours.

The soldier sat there with him the whole time, not moving a muscle, and every so often he would whisper something, words of comfort no doubt, and Ludwig wondered why she hadn't _spoken_ to him first. Why couldn't she have told him? Why couldn't she have tried to explain to him how she felt? Why hadn't she tried to get help from the neighbors?

Anger.

For a while after that, he hated her.

Everything after was a blur, as the soldier finally pulled him up to his feet and walked him down the stairs. Ludwig went with him, one hand tangled up in his uniform, and he was well aware that if the soldier had left him alone, he would have curled up and cried more. Guess the soldier knew it, too, because he finally was resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to be released anytime soon, and the next thing Ludwig knew, he was in the street again, as the soldier went back to his base to get someone who could sort everything out.

And even when Ludwig found himself sitting there in the American base, those soldiers all around him, trying to engage him and trying to comfort him, he just clung to that one man and stood there in a daze. Didn't let go of him the whole day, and the soldier just tried to smile the entire while, even if he hadn't really managed it.

It was a little astounding to Ludwig, then, how _nice_ they were being to him.

These same men had been the ones shoving the rifles into his back a year earlier, and yet here they were, hovering over him and speaking to him gently. One of them had knelt down before him, grabbed his hand, and used the other to pat him on the arm, smiling and speaking, and Ludwig, beyond that awful daze of shock and confusion, had felt oddly comforted, as it had no doubt been intended for him to feel.

Amazing.

They had been angry, back then. Everything had settled now.

Americans.

Sometime later, the town police came, one of his neighbors came with them, and suddenly Ludwig was sleeping in a bed that wasn't his, as he waited for them to figure out what was going to happen. What was going to happen to him? Would he be sent back to the orphanage? Ludwig wished that he could have just gone back over to that one soldier and buried his face again and crawl under his arm, because the misery was overwhelming.

So was the anger.

So angry. Didn't ever think he could be angry with her. _Hated_ her. She was his mother, too. She had said so. She was his mother. He may not have been her son, but she was his mother. Why had she left him alone?

Everyone was gone.

In the morning, Ludwig didn't want to get out of bed, but had to, because they told him he was leaving.

Didn't know where. Didn't know why.

In his daze, he forgot to go back home and grab Gilbert's letters from beneath his pillow.

So lost.

The soldier from the day before was waiting below in the street, though, looking tired and yet determined, and when Ludwig came through the door, he walked up, bent over, and hugged him. Hugged him. Ludwig didn't know _why_ , but didn't refuse the chance to burrow again into that uniform, and he wished, suddenly, that he could have just stayed there in the American base, because they had been kind to him. Couldn't, though. Had to go, even if he didn't know where, and it was hard for him to finally disengage himself from the soldier's arms. By then, by the time he pulled back, he was crying again. One final pat on his shoulder, a smile, and the soldier gave him a friendly farewell, rustling his hair, and maybe for that Ludwig had felt a little braver to set out on this journey, tears or no.

Nice, to have someone come back just to check on him.

Ludwig never forgot them, those men that had been nice to him, and never forgot that one soldier.

Wished he had asked him his name.

* * *

The summer of 1946.

They hadn't sent him back to the orphanage.

Rather, they had put him on a train and sent him across the border into Austria, into a little town. Lienz. He was going to be staying with someone, they said. Ludwig almost hadn't cared who, not really, but stayed close by to the kind neighbor that had dutifully volunteered to escort him there.

All his mother had left behind was a letter. In it, was an address and a name.

Her father.

That was where they had sent Ludwig, to his 'grandfather'.

Ludwig hadn't ever met the man, not personally. None of them had ever said anything aloud, but Ludwig had come to the conclusion on his own that he wasn't exactly welcome in his adopted grandfather's idea of 'family'.

The first time he saw the old man, the first thing Ludwig felt was a pang of longing. Looked like his mother, in that pale skin and pale hair. And maybe, somehow, the feeling was a little mutual, because the old man seemed rather dumbfounded as he stared at Ludwig, and so did his counterpart. Some other old man that must have lived with him.

"My god," the man breathed, as he turned to his 'grandfather' in awe, "I'll be damned! What are the chances, huh? He looks just like you! Hell, if you didn't really know that he had been adopted, you'd never know that he wasn't—"

But the other only turned steely eyes to the child before him, and said, firmly, "He's not my grandson."

Ludwig wanted to go _home_.

He hadn't wanted to come here. Never had. If this man didn't want him, then they were, perhaps, even.

He just wanted his mother back.

After a while, his anger with her had faded. She had left him, but maybe it wasn't her fault. She had been alone, too, in a way. Ludwig just hadn't been enough for her, and that wasn't her fault.

His. His fault. He had only been trouble for them.

Wondered if the old man knew it. If that was why he hadn't ever wanted to meet Ludwig before. He must have known. Had to have felt the shadows even from so far away, that was why he had never come by and had never contacted them.

Ludwig stared down at his shoe the moment it hit the threshold of that door, and wondered how long it would take for these shadows to grow.

Gilbert never came back, and Ludwig knew that he was dead, but still didn't want to admit it.

Homesick.

* * *

The summer of 1949.

Three years.

He had lived with the old man for three years. Not the most pleasant years of his life, but not the worst, either. He and the old man had made peace long before he had left Ludwig alone.

Hadn't been so bad, and, for all of his talk, it really hadn't taken all that long for the old man to warm up to him. Maybe because he missed his daughter and real grandson so much.

Before he had died, laying there in that bed, he had reached out, and taken Ludwig's hand.

The first time.

The last words the old man had uttered were weak, and simple :

"When I look back on it, I think you really were my grandson."

Ludwig had cried a little, when he had shut his eyes afterward.

The last shred of family. The last line.

Everything was gone, now.

He had waited and waited, all these years, but Gilbert never came back. Eight years. If Gilbert were going to come back, he would have done it already. Eight years, waiting and waiting, and Gilbert hadn't come through the door. So much waiting.

Waiting in vain, as it was. Gilbert was dead, and at long last, Ludwig finally accepted it. Finally admitted it. Finally had to stand there and realize that no matter how much he hoped, how long he waited, Gilbert was dead.

No point in staying.

His grandfather's friend, lonely by himself, was quick to ask Ludwig if he was going to stay with him for a while, just a while, and Ludwig could see in his eyes the fear he had of being alone. So, seeing no harm in lingering for a while if it made someone happy, he had nodded his head.

Poor old guy hadn't lasted too much longer, anyway.

Another man gone.

No one ever seemed to last too long around him.

Ludwig decided then that it was better for him to always be alone, because everyone he came across seemed to end up vanishing in the darkness he unwittingly cast.

Alone.

* * *

The spring of 1950.

The sight of ships in the water.

A long journey. Hamburg. It had taken him weeks to get here, walking and hitching. Didn't want to spend any money that wasn't absolutely necessary.

He couldn't say exactly when he had decided that he couldn't stay in Germany. Likely, it had been the very first moment those soldiers had pushed him forward to that train car. Couldn't stay. Too many 'what if's. Everything hurt. Thinking hurt. Seeing familiar landscapes hurt. Couldn't go back to Dachau, couldn't, would have been too much for him.

Nothing was the same, so he couldn't stay. The town would never look the same to him. The people wouldn't look the same. The streets, the trees, the flowers, the signs, the buildings. All of it was tarnished.

Once upon a time, Dachau had just been a town, that was all. 'Have you ever been to Dachau?' Now it was something worse, something awful, and whenever someone said the name aloud, that beautiful town would never again be the first thing that came to mind.

Something else.

Too many bad memories, so he had to go.

If he couldn't go back to Dachau, then he just didn't know where to go at all. He was all alone. No family. No friends. Not one single soul on the face of the Earth knew that Ludwig even existed. Didn't know where to go, so he had just started walking up to the sea where the ships were. Disjointed ideas up in his head. Just needed to get away.

Too many questions, too many doubts, too much misery here. Couldn't take it.

So _many_ 'what if's.

What if he had been good enough for Gilbert to abandon the war and stay home? What if his father had stayed the second time? What if she had gone to a neighbor and asked for help? What if his grandfather had come out to help her? What if he had done more to make her love him? What if he had been enough for all of them, just enough if not too much, just enough for them to stay?

He hadn't been good enough.

And above all, above all else, the worst question of all :

'What if I had just gone a little farther into the woods?'

Wouldn't have changed anything, wouldn't have been able to do anything about it if he had known, but he thought it all the same.

What if.

He reached the ships, grabbed up the puppy he found, and tried to think of where he wanted to go. After a short while, the answer seemed fairly obvious :

America.

He went to America, because that was where so many people had gone, and maybe, somewhere in the back of Ludwig's mind, he went there because of the memory of that American soldier whose hand he had grabbed. Went there because of that man, and those others, that had been so nice to him that day. Went there because those men had comforted him, and god knew that he needed more of that.

Hoped they were all like that.

But they weren't.

Some of them were, they really were, but most of them weren't, and his hope of comfort had been quickly shattered. He felt almost _betrayed_ , in some silly way, that the country hadn't lived up to his ridiculously high expectations. That the city itself wasn't full of replicas of that American soldier. Felt as if they had let him down, some way.

He wandered here and there for two days, having nowhere to go and no one he knew, and slept where he could, scrounging up enough change for food, but only for the dog. Couldn't stand the puppy being hungry, whining like that.

The longest two days of his life, it seemed.

Exhaustion.

He kept on walking in daylight, because he didn't know what else to do. His first time on his own; he had truly hoped that someone would come up and grab his hand and lead him where he needed to go.

And, eventually, someone had.

He must have looked vulnerable or lost or sad, or maybe he had looked all three, because it didn't take long for someone to see him looking around at the massive buildings with defeat, so helpless, and extend their hand in kindness.

He would never forget when the girl came up to him, that first time, and asked, gently, "Hey. Are you lost?"

Turning to her, tired and melancholy, the puppy writhing in his arms, he had stood still. The first person to ever talk to him this side. His English, what little there was, was still shaky at best, and he was almost too embarrassed to open his mouth and answer.

She had seen his hesitation, his shyness, his defeated air, and the smile she had sent him then—god. No words for it. It was the same smile his mother had sent him so many years ago, when she had knelt down there in front of him.

Adoration.

"Come on," she said, reaching out and patting the dog upon its head. "Tell me where you're going. I'll take you there."

He had only nodded his head, but she must have known how grateful he was.

Eventually, as they walked along slowly and Ludwig had yet to open his mouth, the girl had understood.

"Oh. You don't have anywhere to go, do you?"

He shook his head.

Hardly deterred, she had clapped him gently on the back.

"Well then! Let's see what we can find, huh?"

Couldn't do much else, and had nodded at her.

Before long, as they walked down the street, she had reached out, and looped her arm within his.

A glance over, a beautiful smile, and she said, "I'm Felicia. What's your name?"

He opened his mouth, finally, and uttered the first words he had spoken in the United States.

"I'm Ludwig."

Her smile grew, he found himself feeling a little bit of _hope_ , and then she squeezed his arm and said, brightly, "You have such a nice voice! You should talk more, Ludwig. Ludwig. That's a little hard for me to say. Guess that's your version of Ludovico, huh! Well, then! I'll call you Ludovico. Is that alright? A handsome name for a handsome man."

The puppy wasn't the only one squirming before long. She had been the friendliest person he had ever met. He had fallen in love with her immediately, and let her lead him where she would.

That hope she instilled within him hadn't lasted long, or so he had thought, but looking back on it maybe he could say that she had been the one to keep his head above the water all those years.

Where she led him, that first time, was where he found himself still.

This was his life now.

Alfred knew all the rest.

There.

He had said it. All of it off of his shoulders. Years of secrets, years of pain, so many shadows, brought into the light.

A few of the candles had long since burned out. Alfred was still tucked up there sideways on the couch, staring over at him and not saying a word. Had thought he would be embarrassed to meet Alfred's eyes after all that, but he wasn't.

Alfred was staring at him as if they had just met for the first time. Guess, in some way, they had. He felt so light suddenly, and not from the alcohol. Felt as if something had lifted, as if something had come off his shoulders. As if, for the first time, maybe some of those shadows had cleared a bit. Maybe all he had needed was to tell someone. To talk to someone about it. To let someone know.

He looked at Alfred, feeling so bleary and yet so light, and tried to smile.

"Are you happy now?"

Alfred just stared at him, and then leaned forward. Ludwig thought, rather dizzily, that Alfred was going to kiss him. And he did.

But only on the forehead.

Afterwards, hands reached up and fell on either side of his neck, and Alfred's lips stayed very much upon his forehead when he spoke up.

"I'm happy," Alfred finally murmured, "if you're happy. Are you?"

Dazed and mesmerized by Alfred, Ludwig could only nod.

He was, when he was with Alfred.

All of those years didn't matter anymore. The past was gone, shadows vanished, memories were only that, and Alfred was here now.

Alfred was real, and in him, Ludwig could see that same kind of kindness, that same desire to help, that same care and gentleness, that same wonderfulness that he had seen in that soldier that had hugged him.

As it had been once before, being with that man gave him the bravery to move forward.

Even though memories could hurt, could maim, they weren't real, and they didn't mean anything when the present was concerned. Even if he was bad luck, even if there was something about him that attracted misery, it wouldn't do any good to sit there and make himself sick about it.

Forward.

Thumbs on his jaw as Alfred kept his grip, and Ludwig nodded again.

Drunk as he was, Ludwig was bold enough to say, "I'm happy if you stay."

Couldn't have said it otherwise.

Stay.

Alfred stayed.

Somehow, after shifting and squirming, they managed to fit together on the couch, and he was more than happy to pass out there, Alfred's arms gripping him around the chest, and his own hands gripping Alfred's. The most intimate he had ever been with anyone. In the middle of the night, Alfred shifting about stirred him from sleep, and maybe he was still a little drunk, but he thought that Alfred had buried his face into his hair. Lips, brushing down the back of his neck. An indiscernible whisper.

And maybe that was the alcohol, too, but Ludwig was fairly certain that what he felt then was elation, that same indescribable sense of elation as when he had been taken home the first time.

Home.

It might have been that night, pressed together on that couch, that Ludwig realized he was completely beyond just being in love with Alfred—he was _enraptured_ with Alfred. In every sense of the word.

That thought he had once had. 'I think I'm a little bit in love with you.'

A little bit? Hardly. He was head over heels for Alfred, absolutely taken, helplessly enamored, and probably always had been, from the very moment Alfred had picked him up off the street. Would have done anything, anything at all, for that man. Anything Alfred wanted, Ludwig would do. As long as Alfred stayed. He could honestly have said in that moment that he would have laid down his life for Alfred.

No more excuses. No more drifting. No more helplessness.

The only way to go from here on was forward. The only way he was going forward was with Alfred. Bad luck didn't seem so scary when Alfred was holding him, because Alfred wasn't afraid to be near him. In fact, Alfred's brightness seemed to keep those shadows from stretching too far.

Wherever Alfred was, that was his new home.


	19. Täuberln-Walzer

**Chapter 19**

**Täuberln-Walzer**

Trust.

Sounded so simple, such a common thing, easy to give and easy to receive. Meaningless to some, only moderately important to others. People uttered promises and other people trusted them. People extended the benefit of a doubt to their family, because family was known and trusted. Alfred had never really given too much thought to something like trust, truthfully, until he had met Ludwig.

Matthew had always trusted him, on some very small level, not with anything truly important though, because Matthew had known him better than that. Francis trusted Alfred far more than Matthew did, but Alfred knew better than to think that Francis would have ever told him everything.

Earning someone's complete and blind trust had never mattered once to Alfred, because honestly no one in his life had ever been more important than he was to himself.

Not so now, all of a sudden and out of nowhere.

Alfred woke up that morning, on a couch that was not his own in a house that was not his own, with a sleeping man in his arms that had become the first person on the planet to ever give Alfred their unquestioning trust.

That man in his arms suddenly meant the world. More than the world, actually, more than anything, more than any other human on the face of the Earth.

Ludwig meant everything.

Ludwig trusted him, only him, and for that Alfred would have given him anything. No one had ever looked at Alfred and considered him worthwhile of trust, because of course Alfred never had been. He'd been working on himself so hard, so relentlessly, had striven to earn that trust, and had finally been deemed worthy of receiving it. That Ludwig had entrusted _him_ was still a bit staggering, but Alfred took it more seriously than he had ever taken anything else in his life.

Had worked so hard to earn it, and would do nothing to risk losing it.

Deep, even breathing, as unconscious Ludwig slept there in his arms. Remarkable. The most detached, stern, disciplined, wary, jittery man Alfred had ever met, and somehow, someway, he had chosen Alfred of all people to put his faith into.

Wouldn't lose it.

He clenched Ludwig up to his chest, watching his pale neck with nothing less than fascination, studying Ludwig's hair. Had never seen such pale hair, and it was interesting to Alfred to see the short hairs on the back of Ludwig's neck shining white in the pale sunlight. Ludwig was a handsome guy, absolutely, had very fortunate looks, and it was curious to Alfred that he had ever been an orphan at all. Didn't fit the homely image he had in his head. Wondered what had happened to his real parents. Seemed to be of very good stock, and it seemed so odd to Alfred that people like that would have dropped off their child.

Oh, well. Gone and forgotten.

Before long Alfred buried his face in Ludwig's messy hair and startled nuzzling him, because he needed to wake him up and this felt like a great way to do so, if only because he enjoyed the scent of Ludwig's hair.

A sigh, as Ludwig stirred into consciousness, a squirm against him, and warm hands reached up slowly to cover his own. Alfred clenched him up all the tighter, just to make sure that Ludwig knew he wasn't escaping Alfred's clutches until Alfred let him. Wanted him to stay right where he was.

Preferably forever.

A deep, scratchy whisper, as Ludwig leaned his head back.

"You're up early."

Alfred just gave a grunt, and squeezed Ludwig ever tighter. Probably couldn't breathe anymore.

"For once."

The jab didn't bother him, and he smiled into the back of Ludwig's neck, wishing more than anything that this would be something he could look forward to every day.

Time, however, was an issue, because Francis wouldn't be gone forever and Alfred didn't really want to imagine the look on his face if he burst inside his own home to see flowers and candles everywhere, wine bottles strewn about, and Alfred spooning some random man on his couch.

A little awkward.

"I hate letting you go," Alfred finally muttered, "but I think I have to give my uncle his house back."

A noise of irritation.

Ludwig's hands were suddenly gripping his wrists in a vice, apparently quite determined to keep Alfred right where he was, and _goddammit_ , Francis, why couldn't the bastard have spent the week over at the old man's instead? Or a month. Or always.

Or, better yet—

Feeling bold with a half-asleep and hung-over Ludwig, he pressed his lips against Ludwig's ear, and breathed, "I think we should take this party to your place."

Dazed and dumb and probably feeling half-dead, Ludwig just uttered, as complacently as always, "Okay."

A long, comfortable second of Alfred trying to squeeze the life right out of Ludwig.

Ludwig twisted in his arms then, just enough to look over his shoulder and at Alfred, and Alfred couldn't really say that he had ever felt as content as he did then, with their noses pressed together and Ludwig's eyes running over his face like that.

A smile, and then Ludwig asked, a bit carefully, in a very rough rumble, "So, was that your idea of a date?"

Ah.

Unsure of whether or not to feign offense, Alfred just squeezed Ludwig all the tighter and replied, lowly, "What? Not good enough for you? Did you have something else in mind? I was kinda proud of myself."

"As usual," Ludwig griped, those eyes still running over him, and Alfred was very close to cracking.

Man, Ludwig was all about smashing his ego this morning.

"Sorry," Alfred said, as he pressed ever farther forward, so close now that their lips were almost touching, "I'll try to take you on a real date next time. But I mean, I don't know what you want. I took you out to a diner already and I didn't even get a goodnight kiss. So. I don't what else I can do. I don't think I can top this. I'm all out of ideas."

A look of exasperation.

"As usual," Ludwig repeated.

Feisty this morning. Maybe spilling his soul out to Alfred the night before had loosened Ludwig up around him. Maybe he was getting some love-jabs. Hoped so.

Welp.

Felt like he'd already made enough of an ass of himself for months now, he'd already thrown himself out there completely, had already put every bit of himself out on the line, had literally nothing else to lose at this point, so why not?

Ludwig had trusted him enough to tell him the truth, and Ludwig wouldn't have done that if he didn't feel for Alfred what Alfred felt for him. No way, not someone like Ludwig. Wouldn't have been lying here in his arms this very second if Ludwig didn't feel that way for him.

So Alfred muttered, crankily, "You're so hard to please," and before Ludwig could snipe at him again he just pressed forward and finally kissed the bastard at last.

No retort then, none at all, as Ludwig froze up like a deer and didn't twitch a muscle.

Good; made it easier to grab the back of his head and put more effort into it. Ludwig was completely limp in his hands, as if the sense had been knocked completely out of him, and he didn't move at all until Alfred had pulled back the second time and asked, rather playfully, "You ain't gonna slap me again, are you, baby?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, and promptly lost his voice, no doubt shocked by Alfred so boldly calling him 'baby'. Wasn't gonna take it back, no way, and like everything else Ludwig was just going to have to saddle up and go along for the ride.

A long moment of open-mouthed Ludwig gawking at him, and then, at last, Ludwig rumbled in that sultry murmur that Alfred now loved, "I'm thinking about it."

Honestly, Alfred would have let Ludwig slap him until he couldn't remember his own name, just as long as Ludwig let him keep kissing him.

And, as a matter of fact, it seemed that Ludwig actually would let Alfred keep kissing him, because suddenly Ludwig had twisted completely around in his arms and they were chest to chest. A nose pushing into his own, and a wonderfully familiar palm on his face.

Loved that already.

Hoped Ludwig knew what he was doing, because now that he was willingly in Alfred's arms he sure as hell wouldn't be leaving them anytime soon, whether he wanted to or not.

A long, quiet stare between them, as Ludwig's thumb ran over his cheek, and then Ludwig smiled, calmly. Looked so tranquil in that moment, Ludwig, so peaceful, as if everything in him had found some kind of serenity. Talking about it all, maybe, had relieved some of that pressure and Ludwig was able to find balance.

Looked quite beautiful in that moment, in Alfred's eyes, and so he pressed forward and kissed him again, momentarily forgetting why he had woken Ludwig up in the first place. Very hard for him to focus on anything else when Ludwig was looking at him like that. How could he possibly have been expected to pay attention to the real world when he was kissing the man he had spent countless months relentlessly pursuing?

Impossible.

Maybe he got a little too invested, when his hand ran down Ludwig's side and Ludwig's hand wound up on the back of his neck. Kinda forgot where he was and what he had been doing, if he were perfectly honest.

When exactly he had maneuvered them around and somehow pinned Ludwig beneath him exactly, he couldn't say, but it was a spectacular feeling all the same. By god, to have Ludwig's hands on his back like that! Something he hadn't known until then he had ever even needed.

During a pause, when Alfred pulled back, Ludwig murmured, so quietly, "Am I dreaming?"

Alfred snorted, bumping their noses together affectionately, and replied, "Sure hope not. But if so, then let's not wake up."

Ludwig's lidded eyes then were extremely seductive to Alfred although Ludwig surely didn't intend for them to be.

As he always did, he fell for Ludwig, and kissed him again, falling atop him with his full weight as Ludwig's hands ran into his hair.

Well, hell, if this was a dream, then it was the best one Alfred had had in a damn long—

Francis—!

Damn!

With a sharp inhale, Alfred pulled back very abruptly, Ludwig looked startled, and Alfred managed to roll over Ludwig and onto the floor without breaking his neck. He stood up, scrounged up his glasses, looked around in a daze, and knew he was gonna haveta to clean all of this up before Francis came back. Better now than later, too, because if he didn't get his hands off of Ludwig right that second Francis would have walked into something a hell of a lot harder to explain than spooning.

Right.

Ludwig sat up on the couch, looked around a bit blearily to gather his bearings, and Alfred said, gently, "Go home. I gotta clean up my mess. My uncle will be back before long."

A dumb, dazed nod, and Ludwig stood up, looking yet a little stupefied.

Ah, that adorable little jerk. Alfred watched him fondly as he searched for his shoes, smoothed down his shirt as best he could, and tried in vain to smooth his hair. Looked a total mess, in all fairness, and for that was particularly handsome.

Hated seeing him go, but go he must, because Alfred was on borrowed time.

He walked Ludwig to the door when he was ready, and Ludwig just stared at him yet as if he really had stepped out of some dream.

Alfred ran a hand down his arm, and assured, "I won't be too long. Alright?"

A nod, and Ludwig drifted away from him and to the door.

When Ludwig had the doorknob in his hand, Alfred suddenly whirled around, stalked forward, grabbed Ludwig's arm, twisted him around, and kissed him rather furiously.

Just one for the road, was all.

Once more, Ludwig fell up against him quite cooperatively, hand flying up to the back of his neck, and Alfred tried to make sure Ludwig knew that he really was intending to hurry up and get over there so they could take up right where they were leaving off.

As abruptly as he had kissed Ludwig, Alfred once more pulled back, and once more shoved Ludwig gently towards the door.

Once more, Ludwig sighed and tried to go outside.

Damn!

One more time, just one more time, that was all, just one more time for sure, just for good measure. Thought that maybe Ludwig was smirking a little when Alfred grabbed his arm that final time and yanked him back for one more kiss. Looked smug enough, certainly, and that time Alfred opened the door and shoved Ludwig out.

Couldn't keep his hands to himself, it seemed.

Ludwig stared at him from below the steps, probably thinking that he had lost his mind, and Alfred shooed him off with a quick, "I won't be too long. Your friend's not home, right? Go home. I'll be over soon. You can, ah, go lay down in bed and wait for me."

Ludwig's brow shot up, and before he could retort Alfred had shut the door in his face.

Alfred whirled back around to start his cleaning frenzy, and then stopped short and groaned to himself, running right back to the front door to wrench it open. Sure enough, Ludwig was still standing there, arms crossed and looking quite exasperated.

"Sorry!" Alfred cried, as he darted past Ludwig and to the street, looking for a taxi.

Had forgotten for a moment that he had dragged Ludwig all over the city at nighttime and that Ludwig had absolutely no idea where he was even at to find his way home to begin with. Not a good way to end his very first date.

Ludwig trailed behind him as Alfred threw his hand in the air for a cab, and when he looked over his shoulder, he could tell that Ludwig was trying very hard to keep a straight face and look stern.

Whew.

Alfred shot him a wink, dug out his wallet, gave Ludwig a ten, and sent him on his way. Was pretty sure that Ludwig had rolled his eyes at the last second, but he'd survive, and hopefully still be in a good mood later on in the day.

Felt so hassled and harried, having so much to do and so much adrenaline. Hadn't known it would be so much work the day after. Had never given such effort to anything before.

The first thing he did when back inside was to gather up all of the flowers and pile them up, because Francis would need those glasses and vases back for his own date efforts. The candles were next, plucked up and tossed into another neat little pile.

It wasn't quite as daunting as it had first appeared, and he was fairly cleaned up and finished by the time Francis did come back, when the sun was bright.

The door clicked open.

A rush of adrenaline, and Alfred turned over his shoulder to look over as Francis came inside, pulling off his overshirt. Could see Francis looking around, quite intently, and Alfred stood up to come over and greet him and hug him and tell him what a champ he was.

Stopped short, though, when he saw how tired Francis looked. The circles under his eyes, which were rather red-rimmed.

Oh, shit.

"So," Alfred began, carefully, feeling miserably guilty out of nowhere. "How was your night?"

No answer at first, as Francis removed his shoes and kept his eyes very downcast, and Alfred could already feel the dread mounting.

Oh, no, hadn't wanted any of this, hadn't wanted Francis to meet any sort of duress. Hadn't meant for that to happen, for him to feel that way. That had never been part of the plan.

Alfred took a step forward, as Francis straightened up and headed directly over to the kitchen table to sit himself down. Alfred followed like a dog, sitting down across from Francis and feeling remarkably horrible.

At last, Francis finally lifted his chin, looked around a bit through those bleary eyes, and said, in a very rough voice, "Well. I haven't slept at all. Was up all night talking."

"Talking?" Alfred pressed, carefully.

What, with the old man? Since when?

Could see in how quickly Francis was blinking and how frequently he was swallowing that he was trying very hard not to burst into tears, and Alfred hated himself a little bit for that.

"Well. When I arrived, everything was alright. He asked how you were doing. If I was keeping an eye on you, since you wouldn't come home. We just...talked, like normal. And then..."

Francis trailed off, eyes falling down to the kitchen table, and Alfred tried hard to be patient and bite his tongue and let Francis take as long as he needed, but damn if this wasn't killing him slowly.

Francis' voice was low. Trembling. On the verge of collapse.

"And then, I don't know what happened. We were just in the middle of dinner, and suddenly, he looked at me, and he was _smiling_. God. I can't even remember the last time he ever smiled at _me_. He said— He said he had good news for me. That I was going to be an uncle. Wanted to know what I thought about the name 'Alfred'."

His stomach dropped so fast and so hard that Alfred was certain he was on a roller coaster.

Ice.

Hadn't been home in months, and hadn't ever thought it had gotten quite that bad, that it had come to that. That his father had really declined quite that far. Had shown signs, sure, but this seemed so far over the edge.

And, oh, above all else Alfred regretted that it was Francis that had suffered for Alfred's selfishness.

Then, at the very last verge, voice so strangled and thick and eyes watering, face crumpling, Francis laughed, "We just talked all night like she was still alive. And god help me, Alfred, I loved every minute of it."

With that, Francis' face screwed up and he dissolved into tears.

Alfred felt like the most miserable, awful man on the planet.

Alfred switched chairs so that he was beside of Francis, and carefully and awkwardly rested his hand on Francis' back. What the hell did he even say? How was he supposed to proceed from here?

Long, horrible minutes.

All Alfred whispered then, as Francis tried hard to stifle sobs within his hands, was, "I'm sorry."

"No," Francis finally muttered a long while later, peering out over the tips of his fingers. "You know... I think I actually feel kind of better. Talking about it like that. Maybe I needed that." Francis buried his face once more, groaning and wiping his eyes, and added, "Maybe I needed a good cry, too."

Good to hear, but it was a pitiful sight nonetheless.

Francis straightened up, muttered to himself in French as he wiped harshly at his eyes and smoothed back his hair, and then he glanced over at Alfred, looking quite like hell.

"What are you going to do, Alfred? He can't be alone like this. He has dementia, you know? That has to be it. Or something like that. He can't be alone all the time."

He knew that. Could see it clearly now, and knew that it was his responsibility to take care of this issue, of this man, only his. Couldn't stomach it all the same, the thought of it, and yet he still held Francis' intense gaze, gave a curt nod, and said, simply, "I'll take care of it."

In whatever manner that may have been was yet to be seen, as well as whether or not Francis actually believed him. Regardless, Francis nodded at him in turn, and considered the matter settled.

Quickly enough, they changed the subject into small talk, as Francis pulled himself together quietly and efficiently. As he usually did.

When Francis had finally cheered up a little, had gotten all of his stress and pent up emotions out, he looked around his house, snorted, and let his eyes settle on Alfred.

He smiled.

"So! How was _your_ night? Have good luck?"

Felt so awful, really did, felt so horrible and guilty, but damn if Alfred couldn't help but smile then, because he had, and it was just too much for him to stay anything but happy.

"I had the best night. I'm— Damn, I'm so sorry, I really am, I feel so bad, but I had the best night of my life, I really did. You don't know how much I owe ya. I'll do anything you want."

Francis lifted his brow, drummed his fingers on the table, and then, after another long silence, he asked, carefully, "So, then. Is there something you want to tell me? Maybe. About your date?"

Dread.

Alfred had never said it in exact words to Francis, nor to Matthew, but it was essentially known to Alfred that both of them were aware of what exactly was happening between Alfred and Ludwig. They had known before he had, hadn't they, with their constant observations about Alfred's increasingly peculiar behavior, and yet...

Somehow, _saying_ it to them—that was hard.

Wasn't ashamed, wasn't embarrassed, loved Ludwig, and so Alfred couldn't really have explained why he stopped short. Somehow, opening his mouth and saying to his uncle, 'I'm in love with another man' was unspeakably horrifying.

Couldn't say it, and foundered, staring at Francis and finally exhaling and giving only a weak shrug of his shoulders.

What could he say?

As much as it had been so hard to get rid of his father's hatred of Germans, it was very hard to let go of the sense of unease that came along with being in a very taboo relationship. A man being in love with another man? Even more unacceptable than Alfred befriending Ludwig had been.

It was easy to stand before the unknown world and not give one damn about flirting with Ludwig right in front of them, but to stand before Francis, blood and his only real family, and admit that Alfred was not right was impossible. To ever have Francis look at him differently, think differently of him...

Alfred didn't give a damn about the world, but he did give a damn about Francis, and he couldn't say it.

Francis lifted his chin at Alfred's reluctance, and tried a different tactic.

"Say. I'm still waiting for you to bring that German of yours over for dinner."

Such careful wording. That German of yours? Could have easily said 'your German friend'.

Francis was beating Alfred over the head, and Alfred got the message, he really did, but still he choked, and only managed to utter, gruffly, "Oh, yeah. Well. Haven't had time, I guess."

"Hm!"

A very long, very awkward silence.

Seeking a desperate escape, Alfred jerked his hand in the air, and said, far too quickly, "Look, I'm really sorry about last night. I really will make it up to you. Really. I gotta go, alright? I'll be back soon. I'll be your slave whenever. Alright? See you later. Love ya."

With that, Alfred turned and bolted to the door.

Didn't make it all the way.

Francis finally uttered, so quietly, "If you ever want to just say it, I'll be here. I already know, so whenever you feel like you can say it, I'll listen to you."

That meant everything.

Awkwardly, Alfred mumbled, "I know. Thanks."

He made again for the door, and Francis called, "You know I don't think any differently of you. Right?"

Ah, dammit—

Alfred stopped in his tracks, turned back, went right back up to Francis, and hugged him then for all he was worth, squeezed the hell out of him, because honestly he really needed to hear that. Needed that reassurance, even if he wasn't yet brave enough to sit there and tell Francis in words.

Having Francis look at him differently was one of his worst fears, because essentially this man was his father more than his uncle. Francis may have only been telling Alfred what he wanted to hear, and Alfred was as aware of that as he was everything else, but it felt good all the same. Francis may have very well thought differently of him, may have shifted opinions, but as long as he pretended he didn't then Alfred could have easily carried on.

Francis returned the embrace, as well as he could for his pinned arms, and said, quietly, "I knew that very day you took me to meet him. Just come by, whenever you want to talk."

"Thanks, man" Alfred muttered, his voice muffled in Francis' shoulder, and he had to let Francis go then and run off, before he was the one crying.

Felt good to hear, so good, because the old man thought that there was something wrong with him, and so did the world, for that matter.

Couldn't cry, not now; had someone waiting for him.

It was Sunday morning, after all. Walking time, and Alfred never missed it, although this time he may have been planning on replacing walking with another activity.

As he always did every time, he focused on Ludwig, and pushed the old man out of his mind. Would do something about it, really he would, if only because he had promised Francis, but he couldn't do anything about it right this second, and Ludwig was waiting for him. Alfred had never in his life denied that he was selfish, and it was easier to put aside unpleasant tasks for the high he got from being around Ludwig instead. Would deal with it eventually, but not today.

Not today.

Today, he had other plans, and not one of them involved feeling guilty or sad or regretful.

Today, Ludwig was his, for the first time.

The walk through the city was just long enough to get him settled down and back into a decent mood, and he was grateful for that because he swore to himself right then and there that he would never again take a bad mood back through Ludwig's door, as he had on that awful night.

Ludwig didn't deserve it.

Had had too much trauma coming through his front door his entire life.

Wouldn't ever show anger or doubt or sadness, no matter what, and by the time he was standing in front of Ludwig's door, his spirits were high, his father was forgotten, and Alfred was once more up in the clouds.

Time to shine.

He pushed open the door, and was a little disappointed to see that Ludwig was not, after all, lying down on the bed waiting for him. Damn shame, too. Was sitting instead on the couch, legs crossed and arms behind his head.

Looked a little smug yet. Figured.

Seeing Ludwig washed away every feeling of guilt and misery, and Alfred loved him for it, even if Ludwig didn't know at all that he was doing so.

Ludwig eyed him as he sauntered over, lowered his arms and sat up straight, and he did so not a moment too soon because Alfred crashed down on the couch beside of him so heavily he was surprised he didn't break the damn thing. Ludwig didn't have time to chastise him for potentially ruining his furniture, because Alfred had already kissed him.

Taking right back up where he had left off, if no one minded, thanks, and tried very hard to suffocate Ludwig then, holding him still by the back of the head and tongue long since halfway down Ludwig's throat.

Maybe someone did mind.

When Alfred pulled back to breathe, Ludwig was very quick to say, "Aren't you forgetting something? It's Sunday."

Oh, damn. Right. Well, then! He supposed it was a bit inappropriate of him to even think of missing out on their little ritual, when it was the only time of the week Ludwig got to get some air, and so Alfred immediately conceded and pulled his hands back with a bit of a flourish.

Ludwig's smile was too strong to be suppressed, and Alfred felt on top of the world when he extended his hand down and Ludwig accepted it.

"Forgive me! How could I forget? Let's go, then. I wouldn't miss a walk with you for the anything in the world."

That was true, and it was probably better for him to keep his hands to himself until he calmed down a bit more. Was still too excited by this entire ordeal.

Ludwig just smiled.

The walk went as normally as it always did, with the exception perhaps of Alfred being a bit more handsy than usual, keeping his palm consistently on either Ludwig's back or his arm.

The park seemed more colorful and beautiful all the same, if only because Alfred had woken up that morning victorious in every possible way. And the flowers weren't the only things that were bright and eye-catching, because Ludwig seemed to be positively glowing.

Had never seen him like that, actually smiling in front of the rest of the world, walking so gracefully and with his head held high, brow lifted and shoulders loose. Ludwig seemed weightless, light and airy, and that in itself was incredible.

Alfred spent most of that walk just gawking silently at Ludwig, far too entranced by him to form coherent thought, let alone speech, and after a while it was Ludwig leading because Alfred was just too dazed.

Followed where Ludwig led.

In a way, really, he always had, although Alfred had been the one officially in charge. On the surface, Ludwig followed Alfred, but had Ludwig at any point changed direction it would have been Alfred running helplessly behind him.

Always would.

He didn't take his eyes off of Ludwig one time in the hours they walked, and he really didn't even realize all that much when they had left the park and were suddenly back at Ludwig's house.

Kicking his off his boots was enough of a habit by then that he could do so without removing his gaze from Ludwig, who was shifting his weight back and forth and seemed to be trying very hard not to start smirking again.

Eh.

Alfred began to wonder if Ludwig was catching on as to how much power, exactly, he wielded over Alfred. When that happened, Alfred was done for. Would have been utterly eaten alive once Ludwig realized that Alfred would have done anything and everything he wanted.

...wouldn't have really been a fate he protested much.

Ludwig seemed to be waiting for Alfred to pounce again now that they were back inside, and not exactly anxiously, but Alfred didn't, and kept his hands very much to himself. Hard to not get too into it when he got Ludwig on the couch, so it was better to keep a bit of a distance.

For the rest of the evening, they just sat together at the kitchen table, Alfred's arm heavy over Ludwig's shoulders, and they talked.

That was all.

Alfred realized that it was too soon to be so heavy-handed. Had just established a relationship with this man several hours earlier, and although for a fling that was plenty enough time, for something this important it just seemed somewhat tacky. Even for him.

Still had to be some kind of gentleman.

It was only when the sun went down that Alfred stood up, and said, "I have to go."

A crinkled brow of confusion from Ludwig, and Alfred wondered what exactly he had been expecting, what Ludwig had been anticipating. Wouldn't know, because Ludwig would never say, and Alfred only went then because he owed Francis.

Had to go home, at long last, and check on the old man.

Promised Francis, and had no choice.

To be perfectly honest, the only reason he was going now at all was because if the old man really had been up the entire night prior chattering deliriously with Francis, then the chances were excellent that he was asleep this very moment.

Alfred made for the door, and was surprised when Ludwig trailed after him and hovered over him as he pulled on his boots.

"Where do you stay when you're not here?"

"With Matthew, or Francis."

"Oh."

Ludwig knew that already and trailed off, and Alfred glanced up at him with a smirk as Ludwig lingered there above him. May have been a bit puffed out then, may have been bristling in self-satisfaction, but it was hard not to when he was fully aware that Ludwig really wanted him to stay.

Just couldn't say it.

"Worried about me?" he teased, as he pulled himself back up, and Ludwig scoffed.

"I didn't say that."

"What did you say?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, lost his voice, and waved his hand to the door, trying to shoo Alfred off with a quick, "Go on, then! Goodnight."

With that, Ludwig turned around, and Alfred knew that it was Ludwig then who was pouting.

Funny.

Before Ludwig could skulk off, Alfred grabbed his arm, twisted him back around, and said, "You're not jealous now, are you?"

Ludwig gave a short, loud laugh at that, squirmed out of Alfred's grasp, and uttered, quite primly, "Certainly not. Go on. I need some time away from you."

Alfred raked Ludwig up and down, a bit intrusively perhaps, and drawled, "Yeah. I can really tell. Don't worry. I'll come back tomorrow. If that's alright with you, that is."

Ludwig's brow was high, his lips pulled into a sneer, his eyes lidded, as he sent Alfred his best condescending expression, and it would have stung Alfred's ego if he didn't know better.

Taking that as a confirmation, Alfred just sent Ludwig a wink, opened the door, and said, "See you tomorrow. You can just dream about me until then, baby."

Before Ludwig could retort, Alfred shut the door and was on his way.

Just like that, when Ludwig was out of sight, his mood foundered and his stomach twisted. Adrenaline flowed. An awful gnaw of anxiety.

Didn't want to go home.

But he did, because he didn't have a choice, and when his house was finally before him despite having dragged his feet, for the first time in so long, Alfred stood out there on the sidewalk and stared up at it as if were the gates to hell. His courage was fading, and fast, so he forced himself onward before he ended up turning tail and fleeing back into Ludwig's waiting arms.

Wanted to be coddled, and instead found himself opening up his front door and stepping inside of his childhood home.

It was quiet. Stale air.

Alfred slunk in as stealthily as he had the past few times he had ever come home, and peered in here and there. Found his father quickly enough, asleep on the couch with the television blaring static. Why was the television always on a dead channel every time he came over? Maybe the old man liked the static because he could hear voices in it in his worse moments.

Alfred came forward and settled down onto one knee, and observed his father for the first time in months. Had lost a lot of weight, that much was obvious. His hair was nearly entirely grey now, and he was pale. Wan.

Weak.

But not entirely out of commission. Had a long way to go yet before his father could ever be considered a frail old man. Was still strong and big, just not as much as before, and Alfred couldn't look at him and say that he was in exactly dire straights.

Maybe that was all in his head, as his conscience sought ways out.

Alfred stood up, looked around, and went to the kitchen, searching the cabinets and shelves and making sure everything was in order. The old man still had food, still had plenty of supplies. The bathroom looked fine. Everything seemed well enough put together.

The delirium must have just come and gone in random waves. Couldn't have been a constant state of mind, for the house to be so normal.

...yet.

Seemed to be only a matter of time, though, and all Alfred could really do was just keep an eye on things from afar and make sure the old man was eating.

One more final look around, and Alfred quickly left.

Had checked in, as he had promised he would, and considered that good enough. For now, at least. The old man's emotional state was an entirely other matter, but Alfred was only focused on his physical state for the time being. Wouldn't let the old man starve to death, and tried damn hard not to think about how else he may have been suffering there alone in a quiet house.

Hated feeling this way.

He trudged over to Matthew's, knocked on the window, and was let in.

The week passed rather quickly for Alfred, as he attempted to juggle his need to obey Francis and his need to be away from his father every possible second. With each day, it occurred to Alfred that one possible solution to this situation was to find a nurse for his father. Sure as hell would have pleased everyone, and Alfred mulled it over as he lied across Ludwig's lap, gentle fingers running through his hair.

Wednesday morning, before work, Alfred went into his childhood doctor's office, explained his situation to the receptionist, and asked her for advice. She gave him a list of addresses and numbers, and Alfred tucked them away. He visited them all in turn each morning before work, and was consistently disappointed. Sure, they were exactly what he was looking for, perfectly in fact, but he winced every single time a price was thrown out.

So expensive.

Nothing he would be able to afford long term, and certainly not more than once every week or so. Hardly seemed to be much of a point like that.

Alfred's hopes were dashed each time, and yet still he sought a solution, because he was just too stubborn and selfish to ever give in and take care of the old man himself. Couldn't do it, just couldn't. Wouldn't.

Had to be another way.

Alfred found himself saddling up to Matthew Saturday morning, as they engaged in a now rare walk about the city, and although Matthew seemed happy enough Alfred had certain ulterior motives. As usual, as Ludwig would say.

"Say, Matt. Your parents happen to know any nurses or something?"

Matthew lifted his chin and glanced over, repeating, dumbly, "Nurses?"

Alfred nodded.

Matthew snorted, quirked a brow, and before all of this had happened, Matthew would have teased him about wanting to come on to a woman with a needle just for the chance to actually say, 'Hello, nurse!'

This time, in light of everything, Matthew just said, "I don't know. I can ask, I guess. How come?"

"My dad isn't doing so good. He can't really be alone now. I just wanted someone that could go check on him once in a while. Just a few times a week, you know?"

And of course, what that really meant was, 'I don't want to spend a lot of money on my own father, so do you know someone that will do this for me for cheap?'

Matthew's look then was very pointed, and Alfred could easily read it :

'What the hell are _you_ so busy doing?'

Everything else, to be quite frank. Would have made himself busy with anything in the world to avoid dealing with this situation head on and putting himself into a position he had so recently gotten out of. Shirking responsibilities was something he had always excelled at, and saw no reason to stop now.

After a silence, Matthew finally just said, again, "I'll ask. I guess."

"Thanks."

Matthew didn't let him off quite that easily, and pried, "And until then?"

Alfred was quiet.

For once, just once, Matthew didn't press him, and didn't nag him.

Instead, Matthew merely changed the subject, and asked, "When do I get to meet your better half again?"

A smile spread over Alfred's face in a second at that, just at hearing those words, and maybe Matthew had intended that.

Ludwig sure as hell was his better half, no doubt about it.

Elated and too grateful to think of anything else, Alfred said, immediately, "Tomorrow."

Matthew, for his part, seemed quite surprised, no doubt because Alfred had been very unwilling to allow Matthew much access to Ludwig in weeks prior. Hardly seemed to be a point now; after all, Ludwig had been claimed, and there was no longer any need for isolation.

Ludwig was his, and if Matthew wanted to hang out with him a little then that was just fine.

Matthew said, cheerfully, "I'll hold you to that. See you tomorrow."

Alfred turned the tables, and asked, "What about you? You have a better half yet, huh? Maybe someone I know?"

A tint of red on Matthew's cheeks, and he gave a nervous laugh before answering, "Maybe. Why? You wanna have a double date sometime?"

Yeah, right. He wished, and a twinge of melancholy crept into his happiness. Could never be, and Matthew seemed to realize that and looked a little embarrassed for having ever said it to begin with.

"Well. It's nothing serious, really. I can't tell with her. She's always so happy, so I don't know if being with me is any different to her than any other day."

Alfred scoffed, and after a few more minutes of chatter they parted ways, and Alfred's feet took him straight back to Ludwig, as they always did.

Ludwig's feet may have been as equally single-minded, because he was usually right there by the door whenever Alfred came by. Seemed to open the door on the very first knock, and sometimes opened so quickly that Alfred's fist almost connected with his face as he rapped it down.

Eager much? Join the club.

Sometimes, Ludwig almost seemed more eager than Alfred was to be together, because there were times, like this instant, that Ludwig grabbed him by the arm and dragged him forcibly over to the couch so that they could sit side by side, which usually culminated in Alfred being splayed out over Ludwig's lap so that Ludwig could coddle him as Alfred desperately needed.

Not yet, though—Alfred didn't give Ludwig a chance to settle down, grabbing him by the hand and tugging them backwards, saying, "Let's go down to the harbor."

As he always did, Ludwig just went along with whatever Alfred wanted, and Alfred really only wanted to go down to the ships because he loved the sight of Ludwig in the wind and sun against the backdrop of blue skies and the sea.

One of his happier moments, watching Ludwig stare out across the waves. Staring off towards home, as it was.

Alfred liked to think that Ludwig wasn't as homesick now, because someone here loved him. God knew that was how Alfred felt.

It was the most incredible feeling he had ever known, it really was, to wake up in the morning and know that there was someone out there that was in love with him, and that he loved in return. Could never have explained it if he tried to, but he understood suddenly why so many wars had been started by men that were in love.

So easy to understand, because Alfred was certain he would have gladly set ships a sail for Ludwig, would have taken on the entire world for him without a second thought.

It was so easy to fall into that feeling, too easy, and maybe sometimes Alfred just did whatever he felt like without really thinking about it.

It was so easy to walk down the street with Ludwig and lean into his side and push them together, sometimes reaching down and snatching Ludwig's hand briefly to squeeze it before letting it go.

It was so easy to sit there with Ludwig on the edge of the dock and rest an arm over his shoulders, because that was what he always did.

Didn't stop to think about it.

Matthew and Francis had been telling him for a while to be careful, and were so frequent and so serious with their warnings, but in that elated daze of being around Ludwig, it was hard for Alfred to ever really take it too much to heart. He had never been a subtle person, not in anything, and he couldn't really help it. Wasn't intentional at all, just his nature.

Didn't think about things he did before he acted on them.

Hard to worry about possible consequences when he lived so much in the present and in the moment.

That first Sunday after they had become 'they', Alfred had brought Matthew along on their walk as he had promised, and everything had been so great, so wonderful, as it always was when he was with Ludwig, and when they had started walking back Matthew had talked Alfred into hanging out with him for a little while. Ludwig had been quick to shoo Alfred away with Matthew, and hell, it had been so long since he had done anything at all with Matthew, so Alfred had just gone along with it. Saying goodbye to Ludwig though at the edge of the park—Alfred thought nothing of it, nothing at all, because he was so _happy_ all the time, so he just pressed forward right there in the street and kissed Ludwig's cheek in farewell, grabbing his hand at the same time.

Not a second thought.

As he had walked at Matthew's side a while later, though, Matthew had made an odd noise deep in his chest, and then he had whispered, in a low voice Alfred had never heard, "Alfred. You need to be more careful. You can't do that in front of everyone."

For a moment, Alfred had been confused, hadn't even known what Matthew was referring to, because it had seemed so natural to him. It hit him, though, shortly after, and for a moment Alfred had been angry at Matthew, for just a second.

He had opened his mouth, and promptly lost his voice.

Didn't know what to say.

After the anger came the frustration, because he knew that Matthew was right, of course he was, but it annoyed him all the same. Annoyed him that he was being forced to tone himself down, to control himself, to stop acting impulsively, because those were things he had always done so easily.

So hard to stand there and remember that it wasn't safe now for him to just do whatever came to mind, because he had suddenly found himself on the wrong side of society.

Alfred had slept on Matthew's floor that night, because he didn't want to take that bad mood back to Ludwig. Couldn't, not after he had sworn to himself that he wouldn't ever let Ludwig feel down again.

Tuesday evening, Alfred had gone to Francis' for a visit, and after a quick hug, Alfred had asked Francis where he could find some good flowers. The ones he had bought before had been loose, bought on a whim, and he wanted something that was actually put together and nice.

Francis stood there, looking at Alfred quietly, and then said, "I guess... Ah, guess they're for your, ah, _date_ , huh?"

Your date—what Francis had really wanted to say was, 'I guess they're for your man.'

Alfred just lifted his chin, scoffed, and said, so casually, "'Course they are."

A silence.

Francis exhaled through his nose, lips pursed and brow crinkled, and then he had finally just said, so lowly, "I hope you're being careful, Alfred. I should hope that you're not making yourself obvious. I worry about you sometimes. The way you can be."

As with Matthew, his first sentiment was anger, gone as quick as it came and replaced with more frustration.

Couldn't stand it, couldn't, hated all of these endless warnings and murmurs of caution.

Just wanted to be happy, was that asking so much?

All Alfred could do was grumble back some half-assed assurance that he knew what he was doing, although that wasn't necessarily true.

In the meanwhile, Matthew had yet to find a nurse, and Alfred was forced to swing by his home every few nights, very late and very quietly, just to make sure the old man was still kicking.

Tried so hard to carry on normally.

It turned out not to be so hard for him, but that was only because Ludwig was there, and Alfred drew his confidence and assurance and happiness from the way Ludwig looked at him.

As he often did, Alfred shook off the outside world, shrugged off every warning and everything he found distasteful, and carried on as easily as he always had.

His focus now was on making Ludwig as happy as Ludwig made him, through whatever means that may have required.

That was the easiest part of this entire ordeal, actually. Making Ludwig happy was remarkably simple, because all Alfred really had to do was show his face and Ludwig perked right up. The only person in existence who looked forward to seeing Alfred and who truly wanted to have him around at all times.

Weeks passed, and eventually Alfred steadily forgot about acquiring a nurse for his father, having fallen into a bit of routine by creeping inside in the middle of the night. Ludwig smiling at him made it hard for Alfred to really feel pressure or worry.

He just forgot, after a while.

Towards the end of August, close to what Alfred considered their one month 'anniversary' of sorts, he had finally decided that he wanted to officially move in with Ludwig, although he spent the majority of his time there anyway.

Wanted to say, at last, that he lived there, and fully intended to take over management of the household, as it was, and pay the bills. Felt rather like the natural next step, and he had been thinking about since the very first time he had ever held Ludwig in his arms.

It had been storming frequently, and Alfred enjoyed the rain quite a bit because every time it started drizzling, Ludwig would look at Alfred from the corner of his eye, waiting for Alfred to sling his jacket over his shoulders.

Alfred never disappointed.

It was a Friday night, stormy as ever. The rain had been pounding away, and Ludwig had been contentedly snuggled up in Alfred's jacket when they had gotten back to Ludwig's home, which Alfred was very much intending to ask could become his home as well.

Had been running the words in his head, over and over again, all day long.

Anxiety was high, but so was joy.

Moving in with Ludwig would have been an absolute dream come true, for now at least. Would have truly felt like he had established himself in Ludwig's life and would be there from that point onward. How strange—the old man had spent so much time trying to marry him off like the other men his age, and the thought of it had made Alfred shudder all the way down to his boots. Had never once imagined himself ever wanting to settle with one person, had never wanted a serious relationship, because he was too focused on himself.

Couldn't say what it was about Ludwig that made him want consistency and stable ground.

Maybe, in the end, Ludwig's reliance upon him and vulnerability made him important to Alfred, because Alfred had always needed someone needing him. Ludwig did, whether he would ever admit it or not, and for that Alfred needed him in equal proportions.

Wanted to be together, officially, and tonight he would ask.

He had so many words in his head, so many things he had planned, so many charming, wonderful ways he had planned on sweeping Ludwig off of his feet and into a full-blown relationship, so much he had strung together.

So many ideas.

Yet when they were sitting on the couch later on, Alfred's arm ever over Ludwig's shoulders, when Alfred finally opened his mouth, all that came out was a weak, lame, "Hey—can I move in?"

Shit. Shit, shit—

Ludwig's brows shot up, his lips parted, he exhaled just a bit, and Alfred pulled back, throwing his head back onto the couch and raising a hand up to cover his eyes in absolute exasperation with himself. Christ, how fuckin' lame, how had he even said it that way? Had been planning this for an entire month, and that had never been on the list of ways to say it.

Sounded so...

A scoff, and Ludwig finally managed to utter, deeply, "You already live here. Pretty much."

Yeah, that was why he hadn't wanted to say it like that.

He groaned into his palm, cursed to himself, and then sat up straight, turned back to Ludwig, still gripping him around the shoulders, and tried again.

"That's not what I meant to say. What I meant was— I wanted us to move in together. I don't care where, here or wherever else you want. I wanted to... I meant to say, that I want us to _be_ together. Hell, if you asked me, I'd take you anywhere you wanted to go. I'd build you a damn house. What I meant to say is that I want us to live together. You know?"

Stupid.

Ludwig must have thought he was the most pathetic man on the planet.

Maybe a better way would have been a far bolder, 'Will you be my boyfriend?'

Felt too weird saying that somehow, and surely Ludwig would have felt the same, so this way was easier.

Ludwig stared at him for a long while, Alfred squirmed under his gaze, and then thankfully, mercifully, Ludwig seemed to grasp what Alfred was really saying, what he really wanted, and humored him without bashing his ego. For once.

Another snort, and suddenly Ludwig had fallen sideways, resting his head under Alfred's chin and using that very deep rumble that Alfred was beginning to associate with him being very lucky.

"First a date, and now this. Be careful, Alfred. You're going to give me the wrong idea. That almost sounded like a, what's the word, _proposal_."

Well. Something like that, even if Ludwig hadn't pronounced it correctly.

As good as either of them were ever going to get, and Alfred was very quick to kiss the top of Ludwig's head, give him a good squeeze, and say, very pointedly, "Who said that was the wrong idea?"

Silence.

The rain pounded away outside.

Hoped he wasn't scaring Ludwig away by being too bold, too fast, too fervent and too overbearing. It was just his nature, to hone in and focus like that on something he wanted, whether all parties were on board or not.

But he really was lucky after all, because after a long stretch of silence Ludwig finally murmured, "Well. I guess we live together now, then. If that's what you want."

"That's what I want."

Ludwig lifted his head, pale eyes boring into Alfred's, and Alfred could see that Ludwig was judging his sincerity in that instant. Analyzing him and calculating, studying him and gauging how trustworthy Alfred was.

Meant it, meant everything he ever said, and hoped that Ludwig could really believe him.

He didn't flinch under Ludwig's gaze, didn't twitch and didn't falter, didn't look away, and Ludwig seemed satisfied, because he exhaled and slumped against Alfred, once more burrowing under his chin.

Hope.

And just like that, for the first time in his life, Alfred was somebody's 'boyfriend'. Wow—that was somehow very nearly incomprehensible. Matthew would have dropped dead right there from shock had he witnessed this, and Francis might have started crying again, this time from pride. Alfred Jones, the king of the showboats, had settled down.

Go figure.

That sense of elation and pride and ego was too much to ignore, to set aside, and Alfred twisted around enough to lean over and kiss Ludwig as furiously as he had that first day.

As was now routine, Ludwig went along with whatever Alfred did, but the hands on the back of his neck were a nice touch, and spurred him on.

Didn't take too long for him to fall ever farther forward, and once more, Alfred had Ludwig underneath of him on a couch, and once more he fell into the moment.

This time, though, when he laid his hands on Ludwig he didn't plan on pulling back or stopping halfway, and hoped that Ludwig understood that. Had to have, really, because there was little else to assume when a man pinned you down underneath him and started unbuttoning his shirt. Ludwig didn't move, didn't try to squirm out from under him, didn't push at his chest, and, more importantly, he didn't say 'no'.

So Alfred carried on.

To be quite frank, he was never going to be able to marry Ludwig, sure as hell couldn't take him up to some altar and put a ring on his finger, no matter how badly he may have wanted that, so perhaps moving in together was as close as Alfred could get to matrimony.

And well...

Felt like an appropriate enough time to finally make a move on Ludwig. He had kept his hands to himself, more or less, because up until that moment it had seemed somewhat inappropriate. Had slept with girls hours after meeting them, more times than he could count, but it wasn't like that this time. Had spent so long earning Ludwig's trust, and didn't want to move too fast and give off the wrong impression.

Ludwig had given consent to move in together, to be together, to be an official couple, and that was the green light Alfred needed.

No point in waiting anymore.

Anyway, his shirt was unbuttoned and Ludwig's hands were running down his chest, so the feeling was clearly mutual.

Ludwig pressed up and kissed him, the first time Ludwig had instigated a kiss, and Alfred, in a rather ecstatic daze, fumbled his hands down from removing his shirt and instead ran them up under Ludwig's. Hands in his belt. Could barely breathe then, as warm as it was, and when Ludwig's hands ran down his back, Alfred inhaled and was about two seconds away from ripping Ludwig's shirt off altogether.

Made a move to do it, too, and then of course there was an interruption.

A knock on the door.

God fuckin' dammit—!

Alfred's hissing inhale of breath then was from anger, fury, and he wrenched his hand out from under Ludwig's shirt with a curse. Was livid, actually, when he sat up straight, face red and hair sticking out everywhere, and Ludwig looked just as ruffled and agitated.

Ludwig spat his own curse as he bolted upright, hair messier yet than Alfred's and face even redder, and he stomped more than walked over to the door as Alfred began testily buttoning up his shirt. If it was that jerk Antonio or Anton whoever, then today was the day he was finally getting his nose broken.

And maybe Ludwig was just as furious, because when he grabbed the handle, he wrenched the door open more than he pulled it, movements looking a bit jerky and angry. Rather than a greeting, Ludwig had barked, " _What_?" before he had even bothered to see who it was.

Yikes.

Ludwig's voice when he was agitated was a little...scary. Terrifying when he screamed.

Not unattractive, however.

Because he was too nosy for his own good, Alfred had already stood up and made his way over towards the door, if only because he wanted to see exactly who it was that he was about to lay into or knock the hell out.

There was no sound, no talking, no shouting, nothing, and when Alfred came up to the door and could see who was on the other side, he barely even noticed them at all because he had caught sight of Ludwig and was pinned still and breathless by him.

Christ—had never seen Ludwig _look_ like that.

As if he had opened the door up to see the entire city had just been ripped away or covered by the sea.

His eyes were wide as could be, mouth open and utterly still. He wasn't breathing at all, and it honestly looked very much like Ludwig had just checked out of the building in that moment because he looked quite spaced and dazed. Certainly no lights on upstairs in that second as he held that door open and fell into a void.

Alfred stood there just about as dumbly as Ludwig was, before he finally thought to actually turn his head and see what was so profoundly impacting Ludwig.

Well, the outside world was still intact, as far as he could see. No catastrophe that was immediately visible. In fact, there was only a person there in the frame.

It was just a man, standing there on the other side of the door.

A man Alfred had never seen, and to be quite frank had never wanted to because he looked a fright, messy and dirty and ghastly. He was soaking wet from the torrential rain, and his clothes were clinging to him and his dripping hair nearly covered his eyes, plastered as it was to his forehead. The whitest damn skin Alfred had ever seen.

Looked like an actual ghost.

The man stood there for a long while, staring at Ludwig as intently as Ludwig stared at him, and then, suddenly, he opened his mouth and spoke.

" _Lutz—du bist so schön_!"

A very gruff, very low, very frightening voice, in a language Alfred didn't understand and could only assume was German. Ludwig was suddenly paler than Alfred had ever seen him. As if every bit of color had been drained right out of him. Deathly pale, and very nearly yellow.

The man staggered forward suddenly, grabbed Ludwig roughly by the back of the neck, and kissed him on the lips.

And god help him, it was like somebody had forgotten to turn the gas off and then struck a match, because everything was suddenly on fire.

The nerve!

Ludwig just stood there yet like an idiot, that same look on his face and deathly still.

Alfred took a stalking step forward, very much intent on ripping them apart and then punching this very unwelcome newcomer in the face, and he might have made it there if the man hadn't collapsed forward suddenly and taken Ludwig down with him.

A loud thud, the sound of the wind getting knocked out of Ludwig, and Alfred could just stand there in that red haze as he looked down at some stranger there on top of Ludwig, and Ludwig just lied there silently and made no motion to move.

It was in that moment that Alfred realized he might have actually been a violently jealous son of a bitch.

Who the hell did this guy think he was? Who _was_ he?

Had never seen him before anywhere, not once, and as Alfred fumed silently, the stranger lifted his head up with a clear struggle, and the way he looked at Ludwig then, the way Ludwig looked right back at him—oh, how that _hurt_. Seeing Ludwig looking at someone else like that.

A long silence, as Ludwig stared up at the man above him with the widest eyes Alfred had ever seen, breathing through his mouth and looking absolutely stunned.

Alfred, already feeling so angry, so hurt, felt all the more enflamed when Ludwig reached up, looking as if he were in a dream, and put his hands on that man's face.

A frighteningly dreamy stare between them.

Alfred wanted to raise hell, wanted to throw that man up against the wall and start beatin' the hell out of him, but couldn't even move. Just that look on Ludwig's face. Hadn't ever seen that. As if, somehow, a ghost had appeared in front of Ludwig and he was trying very hard to see if it was real or not.

A nose against Ludwig's, a forehead on Ludwig's cheek, a low, incomprehensible mutter from Ludwig, and then the man fell unconscious. Ludwig just laid there, pinned down, and didn't really seem to be breathing.

Alfred stared down at them, and, beyond anything, maybe what he felt was something close to betrayal. As if he had been wronged in some way, as if something had been taken from him, because, even though it was still so new, Ludwig was his.

His.

...wasn't he?

Dazed and alarmed Ludwig finally found enough sense then to look up and meet Alfred's eyes. A long, rather blank stare, as Ludwig seemed to be trying to wake back up and form speech.

Alfred was afraid to open his mouth and speak first, because honestly all he wanted to do was scream and punch things.

At least, that was, until Ludwig managed to whisper, "Is he really here?"

Alfred didn't understand.

Wanted to say, 'The guy layin' on toppa you where _I_ should be? Yeah, he's there alright, and you better have a good goddamn explanation because I'm about to murder the both of ya.'

Ludwig seemed quite oblivious to his rage, however, and then he suddenly broke into a breathless smile, tangled his fingers in that man's hair, and whispered again, "He's here, isn't he? Isn't he?"

As if Ludwig thought he was hallucinating or something. Seeing things.

Alfred was silent, because it seemed to him that even if he did answer, even if he did speak, Ludwig was so out of it in that second that he likely wouldn't have even comprehended Alfred at all.

That hurt, that betrayal, that fury died down a little, though, when Ludwig's face suddenly collapsed, crumpled, and he burst into tears.

Shock.

Ludwig, crying like that.

What the hell was going _on_? His head was killing him. His chest hurt. Just wanted to know what was happening. Wanted to know if Ludwig already had someone. Wanted to know if Ludwig was somehow, someway, taken. If Ludwig wasn't really _his_ after all.

Alfred finally found his voice, found his courage, and asked, in a deep, stiff voice, "Who is this?"

Ludwig didn't seem to hear him, fingers running through that man's pale hair with a fervor that was almost alarming, and he had squinted his eyes shut, pressing his face as best he could into the man's shoulder for his odd angle. Muffled sobbing and whispering.

Oh, that jealousy—killin' him.

Enough was enough. This time Alfred knelt down, pressing his fist into the floor for balance, and reached out with his other hand to grab a handful of Ludwig's collar. Needed an answer, and needed it now.

Forcing Ludwig to look up at him, bawling or no, he asked, again, more urgently, "Hey! Who is this? Huh?"

Please, please, please, please don't say ex-boyfriend or somethin', please, because if it was an ex then Alfred was pretty sure it wasn't anymore, not with the way Ludwig was lookin' at him, Alfred wouldn't have stood a chance, not a one.

Ludwig stared up at him through bleary eyes, and when he spoke, Alfred almost didn't understand him.

Just a pitiful, high-pitched blubber.

"Gilbert."

Confusion.

Gilbert? That name. Sounded familiar, but couldn't really seem to remember why, except for maybe—

Something hit him on the head like a rock, realization, and Alfred felt his eyes scrunch as he shook his head and cried, a bit louder than he meant to, "Gil— Wait, your—your fuckin' _brother_?"

Brother.

What? Wasn't he _dead_? Oh, wait...

Alfred fell backward onto the floor, rested up on his palms, and just stared at them in shock because he didn't really know what else to do. Was completely and utterly dumbfounded. Had never in a million years seen this coming, not this, who ever woulda?

And then suddenly, bawling Ludwig looked over at Alfred, and asked, once more, "Is he really here? Please, is he? Am I just dreaming?"

Couldn't stand seeing Ludwig like that, not Ludwig of all people, so Alfred finally got himself together and crawled forward, grabbing the unconscious man and dragging him as carefully as he could off of Ludwig. Ludwig pulled his hands up and covered his eyes with palms, sobbing away, and Alfred grabbed his arms and pulled him up at the waist.

Poor bastard, was about to have some kind of mental break any second now.

He forced Ludwig's hands down, shook him a little to catch his gaze, and when Ludwig was looking at him, so pitifully, Alfred affirmed, "He's here. Really. It's alright."

Eh, maybe not the best answer—Ludwig just cried harder.

An awful, high pitched whimper that Alfred could barely understand but that sounded something like, "How could they keep him so _long_? It's not _right_. Why didn't they let him go?"

Ludwig was utterly incomprehensible after that.

Looking around a little confusedly at the situation, Alfred could really only pull himself to his feet. Ludwig was out of commission, for a while, so Alfred didn't have much of a choice but to grab Ludwig's brother and drag him down the hall and get him up onto the couch.

Looking at him, though...

Damn. Not a good sight.

Hadn't ever looked at someone at a glance and been so taken aback by their appearance. If this man wasn't really a ghost, then it was damn clear he had almost become one at many points, and some quite recently.

Alfred stood there like a damn idiot and looked around, helplessly.

Everything was coming together in his head, and he was starting to understand.

Ludwig's brother had been captured in Leningrad, no doubt, way back in '41. The Reds had held him prisoner, as they had so many, and when the war had ended, the Reds just kept them, kept all of them. Alfred remembered seeing it in the papers and hearing it sometimes on the radio, as steadily over the years the Soviets would release prisoners from time to time, so slowly. Ludwig had a point—it wasn't right. But they had done it all the same, and apparently Ludwig's brother had been one of the unfortunate ones kept far past the end of the war.

Not right.

From the ghastly look of him, he hadn't been out for too long. Must have hunted Ludwig down, the second he had been set free. How the hell had he managed to find him, though? So many years, and so far away. Certainly a determined son of a bitch, that was for sure.

Ludwig was still sobbing away on the floor by the open door as the rain blew in.

What to do, what to do.

This wasn't exactly a situation Alfred had ever really been prepared for. Had never once crossed his mind, and so all he could really think of was to close the front door, cover Ludwig's brother with a blanket, and then kneel down before him to make sure he hadn't up and died.

Hell, not now, of all times.

Was breathing, so that was good. Had just overexerted himself, perhaps. The excitement had been too much for this clearly exhausted man, and he had fainted. He'd be fine. He'd made it this far, after all, and surely wouldn't kick the bucket after surviving however many years in a damn gulag.

Ludwig's brother finally cracked open his eyes, looked blearily around, and when his gaze settled on Alfred, he started speaking.

Didn't understand a word, so Alfred just stood up and went to go grab Ludwig. Had to physically pick him up off the floor and drag him down the hall and set him down in front of the couch. Ludwig just slid limply out of his arms and onto his knees, still a sobbing, quivering wreck, and he didn't realize that his brother was awake at all until Alfred reached down and lifted his head up by the chin to try to get him to focus.

When Ludwig's squinted eyes met his brother's, he fell deathly still and quiet, and they just stared at each other once more, as if all air had left them.

Alfred could only observe.

Gilbert.

How strange!

Somehow, Gilbert was nothing like Alfred had pictured up in head, but then again, that was because he had never imagined that Gilbert was an albino. Maybe Ludwig had said so in his drunken tirade, but if he had then the word had been in German or so mangled Alfred had just never caught it at all. Had never met one, and it was quite fascinating, he would admit. Had never seen someone so perfectly pale, and he had spent all this time with Ludwig.

Pale Ludwig seemed quite normal in comparison to his snowy brother.

Damn, though, if he wasn't a scary looking son of a bitch. Ludwig spoke about Gilbert with such adoration, such love, even after so many years, that Alfred had pictured him as some gentle-looking, handsome man. Maybe he had envisioned someone like Francis, even, as Ludwig had spoken, but damn if Gilbert wasn't the farthest thing from.

Being a Soviet prisoner of war for half of his life surely wasn't helping matters, but the point stood.

Scars everywhere, the circles under his eyes were down to his cheeks, his hair was dull, his skin rather lackluster, he was far too gaunt for his big frame, soaking wet for the rain and in desperate need of a shave. Looked like he had crawled right up out of hell. Was one of the scariest things Alfred had ever seen, if he had to offer his opinion, and he hated himself for it but the thought crossed his mind all the same that this was everything he had once imagined when he had heard stories of German soldiers.

Damn.

And yet, through it all, whatever it was that Alfred saw, that clearly wasn't what Ludwig was seeing.

Had never seen anyone look at anything the way Ludwig looked at Gilbert then, as they stared at each other wordlessly and in that immobile state.

As if Ludwig had seen something so spectacularly beautiful that it was beyond his ability to comprehend it and he had fallen into some sort of trance. His sobbing had stopped dead in his throat, the last tears lingering there in his eyes and on his cheeks, and for a moment there Alfred was afraid it was Ludwig who would faint.

The way he just sat there and stared.

That look—as if Ludwig had lived his entire life in greyscale and was suddenly seeing color for the very first time. Dazed and dumb and elated and so ecstatic that he was in shock.

And then, in that vacuum of space, Gilbert suddenly lifted up his pale, scarred hand, and rested it heavily on the top of Ludwig's head.

Oh, god—

The way Ludwig suddenly cried out then, a noise Alfred could never have hoped to describe, as he leaned forward and grabbed Gilbert's other hand within both of his own; made him actually shiver.

A rush of adrenaline, a very strange sense of...well. Didn't even know what it was, really.

Kinda funny, thinking about it. Alfred had been so jealous, seeing Ludwig and Felicia cuddling each other, and now, as Ludwig and Gilbert did it, he found himself fascinated. He was selfish, always had been, hated not being the center of Ludwig's universe, but that time it didn't even cross his mind to be jealous.

Couldn't take his eyes off of them.

To see Ludwig, stoic Ludwig, sitting there on his knees, eyes crinkled to fit that breathless smile, trying to speak every so often and only managing something like a sob instead, to see him grabbing the hand that was in his hair and drag it to his lips to kiss it over and over again with fervor, to see Ludwig swallow in absolute speechlessness, to see Ludwig so _happy_ that he was crying.

No jealousy.

More like elation, almost. Elation for Ludwig, for someone other than himself. He was happy for someone else. An odd event, but somehow Alfred could say that being happy for someone else felt just as good as being happy himself.

Nearly an hour of this state of touching and being barely able to comprehend each other, and then Ludwig's brother finally seemed to find his voice. A low, trembling word, a gasp of disbelief, and Gilbert gave a loud, sobbing laugh, and was able to speak at last.

Whatever he said then...

Alfred was glad he didn't know, really, because it was somehow more beautiful that way, to see Ludwig inhale like that and sob.

Better not to know, just that one time.

Gilbert's hand kept on running through Ludwig's hair, and Ludwig couldn't seem to stop trying to bring it down to kiss it.

Ludwig spoke, too, finally, and his voice was so thin and high with excitement that Alfred hardly recognized it. When Ludwig spoke in German, the pitch of his voice changed, to accommodate different vowels and inflections, and the sound of it was as fascinating as anything Alfred was seeing now.

Hearing German spoken like that, in that wonderful warble.

His father had imitated German to his friends, with deep grunts and garbled cries and hisses and barks, and as they had burst into laughter and added their own, Alfred remembered thinking that German really was the ugliest language on the face of the earth.

But as he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed against his chest, the feeling Alfred had was strange. Not a familiar one.

Ludwig and Gilbert. They crooned to each other softly, almost like doves, and Alfred closed his eyes, and listened.

Gentle vowels, strange 'r's, soft hisses.

He had never heard German spoken like this before, never in that soft, murmuring tone, and he couldn't help but think that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. Easy to close his eyes then and just listen, and somehow in doing that he was able to feel just a little bit of the love and adoration and exaltation they radiated. It didn't matter then what language they spoke; could have been literally any language possible. Didn't matter, not when it was spoken with such love.

Alfred listened, and felt calm.

Living vicariously through them, for just a moment, because nothing in his own life had ever been that incomprehensibly earth shattering.

Antonio or whoever came stomping in through the door a while later, and when he saw Alfred, his shoulders braced and his chest puffed, and the only thing that saved Alfred from a punch to the stomach was when Antonio skidded forward and saw that third person on the couch. He fell still, mouth open and eyes wide, seemed torn between looking at Gilbert and looking at Alfred, and Alfred knew that he was extremely confused.

All the same, his shoulders dropped, so did his face, and for some reason, Antonio looked a little sad. He kept on glancing over at Alfred, as if, absurdly, he were expecting Alfred to give him some sort of explanation, which was ridiculous because even if they could understand each other Alfred could never have put anything happening into words.

Wasn't nearly gifted enough to describe emotions like that.

Alfred just leaned there against the wall and watched them all night, as Antonio slumped ever more.

Ludwig and Gilbert just nuzzled each other, and neither of them noticed that anyone else was there at all.

Doves.


	20. Waltz for the Moon

**Chapter 20**

**Waltz for the Moon**

Years.

So _many_ years.

Sitting there, watching that door, waiting, _waiting_ for someone to walk through it. Checking the post and hoping beyond all else to see a letter, only to have it never come. To stare out of the window, sometimes for hours on end, watching the drive and praying someone would come walking up. To jump at every car that passed, every pedestrian, every twitch, every breeze, to lift his head up with breathless elation only to be crushed and disappointed by utter nothingness. Waking up every morning to no one there above him.

Waiting.

It had taken sixteen years for that door to finally open again, and yet Ludwig was somehow hardly discouraged by the miserably long wait.

Gilbert.

Sixteen years. Couldn't even believe it. Ludwig's happiness had begun and ended with Gilbert, and some part of him had always been left behind there with the memory of Gilbert. Had never been the way he once had, when Gilbert had been there beside of him. Life had only burned brightly and beautifully in that painfully brief moment that Ludwig and Gilbert had been together. The only time Ludwig could ever say that absolutely everything in the universe had been perfect in every possible way.

Dreaming of Gilbert just hadn't ever been good enough.

Ludwig had always worried, in some way, that being away from Gilbert for so long had perhaps affected his memory. He wondered if maybe, somehow, his memory had warped. If maybe what he saw in his head wasn't really Gilbert so much as what his mind had created over the years.

Wasn't so.

Everything about Gilbert, everything, every part of him that Ludwig had ever adored, was exactly as he remembered it. Everything was the same. That hair, those eyes, those cheeks, that voice, those hands. That smile.

Sitting there at every stage of the day and night cycle as a child, and to see Gilbert's eyes changing shade accordingly with the light. Had remembered perfectly every tint at every hour, and it was the same now. Staring into Gilbert's eyes that first day, Ludwig had known somehow that Gilbert was meant for him.

The white sun of morning, and Gilbert's eyes were pale pink. Afternoon came along brightly, and lit Gilbert's eyes up nearly crimson. Evening came, lower light, and Gilbert's eyes dropped down into deep maroon. Night, moonlight, and Gilbert's eyes faded back into their natural state of pale, silvery blue.

Could have traced every line of Gilbert's palm from memory alone, because nothing had ever been as profound in his life as that man. Gilbert _was_ life, because it was Gilbert that had given life to Ludwig at all.

God, oh god, to have him _back_ —

Couldn't fathom it.

The world came back, started spinning as it once had, the faintest twinge of that beautiful inferno of light and color that had once been his childhood. His time with Gilbert had been brief, but Gilbert had a way of a making a memorable impression.

That man had chosen him.

The hours felt like minutes that first beautiful night, and Ludwig hadn't even realized at all that the dawn had come until Gilbert's eyes began steadily changing color in the rising light, as the sun lit up the blood vessels behind those pigment-free irises and turned them red.

For the first time, Ludwig wasn't sure if the sun was actually rising or if it was just the light Gilbert was bringing back along with him.

His legs were numb from sitting atop them for so long, and he didn't notice. Gilbert was murmuring to him, and he heard himself murmuring back, although the majority of the words were lost. Alfred and Antonio were there somewhere, he knew; he could hear them walking about from time to time in his subconscious, but couldn't ever have found the sense then to actually look for them or acknowledge them. Not with Gilbert's rough hand within his own.

Of course, the very first thing Gilbert had said was, 'I told you I'd come back.'

Unbelievable.

Ludwig could only sit there and stare at him in utter awe, absolute and complete astonishment, because Gilbert had actually kept that promise he had made so many years ago. Could scarcely fathom it, really couldn't.

Walking about in a beautiful dream.

A promise fulfilled, sixteen years later, as Gilbert walked once more through the door.

The high and ecstasy began to crash down, exhaustion hit him hard, but Ludwig refused to budge, as the birds began chirping and the sun was becoming brighter.

Gilbert kissed the top of his hand, and Ludwig felt like he was six years old again, seeing that man for the first time and hoping that he would be the one to take him home.

Again, Gilbert had come through for him.

A hand on his shoulder, suddenly, and a voice in his ear.

"Hey. You need to rest. Both of you. Go upstairs and go to sleep."

Antonio.

Too dumb and dazed yet to function, Ludwig could only let Antonio haul him up to his feet, although he clung stubbornly to Gilbert's hand and refused to let him go. Took a long effort from Antonio to pry him loose and start walking him upstairs, and Ludwig only went then because he could see Alfred helping Gilbert up and knew that they were following.

Oh, to be in bed again, with Gilbert staring at him.

Side by side now, rather than Gilbert hovering over him, as Antonio took charge of catatonic Ludwig and threw a blanket over them and shut the door behind him.

Thought he heard, on the brink, Alfred's voice.

Gilbert's hand on his cheek, his own on Gilbert's neck, and that was the last thing he remembered as he slipped into sleep. Deep, and dreamless. Maybe he didn't dream that time because he didn't need to—no need for the dream Gilbert, when the real one was there next to him. The most comforting sleep he had known since back then.

He didn't know how much time had passed. Just knew that the sun had set by the time he woke up, the orange glow of twilight still on the horizon, and Ludwig stared at sleeping Gilbert once more as if he had never nodded off at all.

The sound of Gilbert's deep, even breathing.

Had anyone ever felt so content as he did then?

The door creaked open shortly after, and a voice called, in a whisper, "Hey. Come down and eat. Your friend made dinner."

Alfred.

Ludwig inhaled, tried to focus, and only managed it when Alfred came inside and crept over, quietly, and stood at the foot of the bed.

"How do you feel?"

After a hesitation, Ludwig breathed, deeply, "Fantastic."

Meant that.

Alfred snorted, and a hand fell atop his calf and gave him a shake.

"Come on. Get up. You need to eat. Him too, when he wakes up."

Didn't want to leave Gilbert, but Alfred shook him again, and Ludwig knew that if he didn't get up on his own then Alfred would drag him out of bed by force, and that would disturb Gilbert.

He slid down as quietly and smoothly as could, trapped between the wall and Gilbert on either side, and he had made it to the edge and stood without waking Gilbert. Couldn't help, though, but to go over to Gilbert and lean down to kiss the top of his head, and with that he turned and meant to leave.

At the last second, as Ludwig took the first step, a hand snatched out and grabbed his wrist in a vice. He looked back, to see wide-eyed Gilbert staring up at him, and it was clear that Ludwig's kiss had startled him awake. From the look of his face, Ludwig wasn't so sure that Gilbert knew where he was at. Abandoning Alfred in a second, Ludwig fell to his knees, took Gilbert's hand within his own, and murmured, "I'm here. It's alright."

A long second, as dazed Gilbert came to consciousness, and then his face calmed and his death-grip on Ludwig's wrist loosened. A look around, and Gilbert seemed lucid enough in that moment for Ludwig to attempt to haul him upright.

Gilbert obeyed him, staring away at him as he had hours before, and Alfred kept careful watch as Ludwig led Gilbert downstairs and into the kitchen.

It may have been exceedingly awkward for Alfred and Antonio, as Ludwig and Gilbert sat there beside of each other like magnets, yet refusing to be parted, and in any other circumstance Ludwig would have been joyfully overwhelmed to see Antonio and Alfred working together. Just couldn't think about it too much now, as Antonio set plates and Alfred poured coffee, and Gilbert and Ludwig just stared at each other.

They were in their own universe now, two pulsars spinning around each other at the verge of collision, and nothing Alfred or Antonio could have done would have ever been enough to distract them or pull them apart.

If they ate then, then it was mechanical and only at the prodding of the two in front of them.

How strange, having a full dining table for the first time, and with these particular four people, two who hated each other, one who had formerly hated another, and one who by all rights should have been dead.

Ludwig found himself on the couch shortly after, Gilbert beside of him, and he was steadily coming back down to earth with every hour that passed.

He couldn't stop staring at Gilbert, couldn't, no matter how much time passed, and when Gilbert finally sat up straight and seemed alert and conscious, lucid, Ludwig asked, "How did you find me?"

Gilbert's eyes ran over his face, endlessly, those beautifully unique eyes that Ludwig could never in his life had forgotten.

A calloused hand fell on the side of his neck.

"I went home as soon as they let me go. Everyone was gone. So I talked to some of the neighbors. They told me what happened, and that you'd been sent out to Austria. I went there looking for you, but no one there knew where you'd gone. So I— I didn't know what to do, so I called my old commander and asked him to help. He searched for records of you. Found that you'd gone on a ship. I bought a ticket that same day. I had to find you, I had to. I knew I'd find you."

Ludwig reached up, taking Gilbert's face into his palms, and when Gilbert closed his eyes, Ludwig was very certain that he was back in that house in Dachau, and everything was as it should have been. Nothing bad had ever happened, Gilbert had never left, and they had always been together.

Gilbert had come looking for him.

As it had been once before, Gilbert had picked him out of hoards of others. Had crossed halfway across the world to find him, had scoured one of the biggest cities on Earth, and Ludwig was bewildered by that, but so grateful.

Antonio hung at the edge of the staircase, watching them intently from shadows and seeming quite entranced. Alfred was out of sight still within the kitchen and very likely moping.

An awful thought struck him, a horrible realization, a terrible squirm of dread and despair, and Ludwig was swept under that sudden wave that crashed upon the shore, as misery washed him away.

Oh god! To fall then to the floor on his knees before Gilbert, grab his hands, bow his head, and beseech, "I'm so _sorry_! I'm so sorry about mother, I am, I tried so hard, but I couldn't help her, I couldn't do enough, I wasn't enough for her, I didn't know what to _do_ —"

Oh, to say that, to admit that, to tell Gilbert of his failure and his incompetence, how he had never been enough, that he had let Gilbert down, when Gilbert had entrusted him with the care of that woman the day he had left. To tell Gilbert that their mother was dead because of him. To think of Gilbert going home after so long, wanting more than anything to fall into his mother's arms and to have to be told by neighbors that she was dead because Ludwig had failed.

A noise off to the side, as if Antonio had wanted to speak but stifled himself at the last second.

Gilbert may have loved him, but would never forget what Ludwig had done.

"Please—I'm so sorry, Gilbert, I did my best, but after father left, I just couldn't keep up, she just stopped talking, and I couldn't get her to—"

Gilbert yanked his hands back, grabbed Ludwig a bit harshly by the back of the neck, forced his head up, and said, gruff voice as intimidating and brash as Ludwig remembered, "Stop it! It's not your fault. What are you talking about? Huh? It was never your fault. It wasn't anybody's fault, and if there was someone to blame then it's me, for leaving in the first place. It wasn't your fault, and she didn't do it because you weren't enough. Got it? She loved you. It's not your fault. It should have never been your job to take care of her. You didn't have anything to do with that. You were just a kid. It wasn't your job. It wasn't your fault."

Not his fault?

Ludwig just sat there dumbly under Gilbert's eyes and hands, and those were the most confusing and spectacular and astounding words he had ever heard. To hear someone say that maybe it wasn't his fault. Beyond his comprehension.

Didn't know what to say, what to think, was quite close to either breaking down or zoning out at the overload of emotion, and Ludwig found himself suddenly standing, grabbing Gilbert's arm, and dragging him once more upstairs, this time to the bathroom.

He was reluctant to leave Gilbert even then, as he shoved Gilbert gently to the bathtub, and it was a great struggle to step back and say, "I'll find you some clothes. Get cleaned up. Rest."

In some way, even, it was frightening to Ludwig to leave Gilbert alone there in front of that bathtub, because it was far too familiar and far too close in the family tree.

But Gilbert started stripping, and Ludwig retreated all the same. Not before glancing up, however, and seeing awful scars on Gilbert's back.

Hurt.

None of this was right.

Ludwig scrounged through his closet, hoped that his clothes would fit Gilbert, sat on the edge of the bed, clenching the garments in his hand, and waited impatiently.

His foot tapped the whole while.

From below, he heard the front door close.

Felt like hours that Gilbert was in the bathroom, and it very well could have been, as he no doubt relaxed in a safe setting for the first time in who knew how long. How long had Gilbert been in the city, looking for him? At least a few months, because Antonio's first whispers of someone looking for him had been a long while back. Had Gilbert just been sleeping on the street the whole while, going from block to block and knocking on every single door, just hoping that he would miraculously find what he was looking for?

That thought hurt as much as anything else.

When he became too anxious and restless, Ludwig stood up, went to the bathroom door, rapped once, and then carefully poked his head in.

Not red—just white.

Gilbert was in the tub, head back, and was asleep.

The water had to have been cold by then, so Ludwig came in, settling down yet again on his knees and running his hands through Gilbert's damp hair. Needed a haircut, that was for sure, but had already shaved. Looked a little better now, clean and somewhat kempt.

Gilbert woke up, as Ludwig looked every visible inch of him over and was increasingly dismayed by the scars he kept seeing.

Could feel Gilbert's eyes boring into him, but couldn't bring himself to look up, instead murmuring, to himself, "How are they not war criminals, too?"

Gilbert snorted, raised his hand out of the water and onto Ludwig's cheek, and merely replied, so casually, "Because they won. Anyway, most of these aren't even from the Reds. It's your fellow prisoner you have to watch out for when there's no food."

Ludwig ducked his head, as that awful urge to cry came back up, and Gilbert was quick to give him a shake and sit up straight.

"Don't worry about it," he said, as reached for the towel. "I got off easy; I'm alive. Better for you to think about the things that happened to me, instead of the things I did, Lutz. Cheer up. I've got, what, sixty or seventy more good years to make up for lost time. You're still a kid."

Ludwig scoffed, eyes averted as Gilbert dried himself off and took up Ludwig's clothes.

Somehow...

Despite Gilbert's efforts, it just wasn't enough. Maybe in time it would get easier, would be easier to swallow, but for now the entire situation seemed far too cruel and outrageous, too devastating, too incomprehensible. The thought that a soldier could be held as a prisoner of war so many years after that said war had ended.

Gilbert's casualness and apathy somehow made it worse rather than better. Had been so desensitized that it didn't bother him, but it bothered Ludwig. Like that rifle in his back all over again.

Ludwig's clothes actually fit Gilbert, somewhat, but that was only because Gilbert was still yet malnourished. Would have been too small otherwise, but the pants were a tad long yet, as Ludwig stood a few centimeters taller than Gilbert. Not bad. Gilbert seemed quite appreciative at any rate, and when he turned to Ludwig and was smiling, he looked miles better, if only for that smile.

A twinge of optimism, seeing him like that.

Gilbert clearly didn't live in the past, as Ludwig had his entire life, and it was almost as if now that everything was over Gilbert had already let it go and was ready to move forward. At a glance, at any rate; only time would tell of course exactly how grounded and stable Gilbert truly was, but that crooked smile was beautiful, and Ludwig fell in love with it all over again.

They were on the bed then, sitting side by side, speaking softly as everything below was still and quiet. Ludwig regretted if Alfred had been the one to leave, but it was impossible to focus on anything but Gilbert then.

Although they had slept the day away, they went to bed again shortly after, slept just as easily, and as the brink of sleep crept upon him again, Ludwig knew that, not so many hours before, this had in a way become Alfred's bed, and Alfred wouldn't appreciate this.

Gilbert came first, and Ludwig could only hope that Alfred could be patient.

In the morning, it was Ludwig who was running fingers through Gilbert's hair, as Gilbert came to consciousness under his motions.

When they went downstairs later, Antonio was there yet, in the kitchen, and when Ludwig looked around for Alfred, he was disappointed and yet not surprised to find him absent.

That stung a little.

Remedied, somewhat, when noon came around and Alfred was suddenly knocking on the door. It was Antonio who answered it, however, as Ludwig found himself at his usual perch on the couch melded into Gilbert's side.

Couldn't stop touching him, couldn't stop kissing his hands, his forehead, his hair, couldn't take his fingers away, couldn't seem to let Gilbert go for any moment of time, even though Ludwig knew that, on some level, Alfred was already becoming agitated. Jealous, maybe, in a way, that someone had stolen Ludwig's attention away from him.

Indeed he surely was, because when Alfred came inside and saw them on the couch, he fell still for a moment, before uttering a weak, "Hey. How's everything going?"

Arm looped within Gilbert's like a schoolgirl, Ludwig just smiled over at Alfred, and said without hesitation, "Wonderful."

Had so much to say, so many thoughts and sentiments, but could never have possibly hoped to express them and so merely said 'wonderful'.

Alfred shifted his weight, glancing in very quick intervals at Gilbert, and seemed to be waiting for Ludwig to say something else, to speak up, to interact with him, to start a conversation, but Ludwig didn't really know what to say.

What could he say?

'Alfred, I know we just officially became a couple, but I need you to take the backseat for a while, as I reconnect with the man I love more than anything else in the universe.'

Hardly, and Alfred seemed fully aware that he was no longer the most important thing in Ludwig's life, and for it looked rather morose.

A long silence, as Gilbert stared at Alfred with a burning intensity that was very likely not intentional, and then Alfred finally lifted his chin, gave a 'hm' and a nod, and wandered off into the kitchen with Antonio.

How strange, that Alfred was interacting more with Antonio now than with Ludwig.

Officially, Gilbert hadn't even been introduced yet to Antonio and Alfred, hadn't said a word to either of them, but Ludwig didn't consider it a pressing matter because it was only inevitable that one of them would just end up saying 'hello'.

Eventually.

Saturday ended, and Sunday came.

Ludwig sat on the edge of the bed every morning, and ran his fingers through Gilbert's hair until he woke up, as Gilbert had for him in childhood.

Alfred was so quiet, and so was Antonio, although Antonio seemed more wistful than agitated, appearing curious and laid back as Alfred skulked in corners and glowered.

The weekend came to an end far too soon, and Ludwig dreaded Monday morning. Dreaded above all else leaving Gilbert all alone but had no choice. Couldn't miss work, couldn't risk that, and Antonio and Alfred were working, too. Ludwig didn't want to ask any of the other Germans, because they were still strangers at the end of the day.

He sat there on the edge of the bed that morning, and when Gilbert woke up, the first thing Ludwig said was, "I'm so sorry, Gilbert. I have to go to work soon. I don't want to leave you alone, but I have to go."

Gilbert stared up at him for a long while, and then exhaled a snort, smirked, and rasped, huskily, "Hey, what are ya talking about? I think I can handle a few hours alone. Hell, I'll probably just sleep, anyway. I'll be alright, Lutz. I got you back, so everything is alright. Go on. Don't worry about me. Hey, those Reds couldn't kill me, no matter how hard they tried. You going to work won't do me in."

Gilbert shot him a wink, slanted smile confident and beautiful, and Ludwig could only smile then and lean over to kiss Gilbert's forehead.

"Sleep, then. And eat. I'll be home soon. Just in case there's an emergency, go out the door to the left and go six doors down. Ask for a man named Rudolf. Alright?"

Gilbert waved him off, and huddled back up under the blankets.

With that, it was time to go.

Ludwig lamented that he hadn't been there to see Alfred off to work as he usually did. Alfred worked earlier than he did, and if he had even been here at all then he was long gone by the time Ludwig came down. Was starting to miss him, really, and it had scarcely been three days. Gilbert was blinding and wondrous and beautiful, Gilbert was everything at the end of the day, but Alfred was _something_ , Alfred was the earth if Gilbert was the sky, and Ludwig needed both of them.

Missed Alfred.

Would try that night to get Gilbert and Alfred to introduce themselves to each other and maybe Alfred would settle a little and be in a better mood.

Ludwig was quite out in space, barely aware of his surroundings as he set out.

He barely made it out of the door when he was suddenly and vociferously accosted. Just walked outside, shut the door, turned around, and came face to face with Mrs. Schultz.

He jumped in fright, gathered himself, blushed, and managed a weak greeting.

A package was pushed into his hands before he could think, and she clapped him on the arm and uttered, "For your poor brother. We're all here for you now, Ludwig. Remember that."

Ludwig ducked his head, sputtered pitifully, she spared his pride and wandered off, and Ludwig could only slink back in and set whatever her gift was on the table before darting off to work. If it could really be called work, anyway, because Ludwig was pitifully unfocused and thought only of Gilbert the entire while. The dream had carried over into reality, it seemed, and all he could really do was shuffle papers absently and daydream about Gilbert.

Was still in shock.

Oh—wished he had all of those letters Gilbert had written. Wished more than anything that he had grabbed them before he left, so that he could lie in bed with Gilbert and read them aloud and somehow take them both back to that wonderful former life.

Couldn't be.

No point in dwelling on it, really. Could only move forward, and he wondered suddenly if he should take Gilbert to go see a doctor. Was certainly in a rough state, but surely not the worst he had ever seen. Would ask him later if he wanted to go. To be fair, Gilbert probably needed someone to fix his head before his body.

The community seemed eager to pitch in, that aside.

Was surprised, but perhaps not so much, that the entire community suddenly seemed to know about Gilbert. Perhaps Antonio had informed them so that they would be prepared and aware of the newcomer amongst them.

Ludwig was grateful that they so far seemed to be welcoming Gilbert with open arms. When Ludwig came back home, there was another package sitting on his steps, and another neighbor waiting nearby to give him another.

Ludwig was rather overwhelmed. Shouldn't have been surprised, really, but it was still a bit astounding to him, those next few days, as he was bumping into someone every time he turned around and found himself answering rapid-fire questions at a blink.

The community seemed to come out in droves out of nowhere that week, and Ludwig was bombarded at all times by questions from everyone and anyone. To the Germans, Gilbert was a topic of intense interest, and everyone wanted to know about him. Couldn't say if it was because Ludwig had always been so alone and those who had known Ludwig just well enough knew that Gilbert was, for all intents and purposes, dead, or if it was because Gilbert was a German soldier that had spent fifteen years in a Soviet labor camp. To them, Gilbert was practically a superhero.

As it often was in times of duress, the Germans came to their aid, and Ludwig always seemed to have someone knocking on his door to drop off food or clothes or sundry items. He was grateful for them, beyond all else, but refused them all entry. They all wanted so desperately to meet this new war hero, but Ludwig wasn't yet sure of Gilbert's mental state, and the poor thing was still utterly exhausted. When Gilbert was stronger and settled in, Ludwig would let take him out a little into the world.

Until then, Gilbert was off limits. Had refused entry to Felicia, of all people, when she had swung by just to visit.

Ludwig was impassible.

To everyone, that was, except for Alfred and Antonio.

Antonio was back again, as he had been before, every single day, hovering in the corner curiously and always appearing so fascinated.

Well, to Antonio, after so many years and so many stories, it must have been quite like seeing a ghost. Antonio often came forward, opening his mouth as if to speak, but always seemed to lose his nerve at the last second, and Ludwig knew that it was because Gilbert was an intimidating man. Yet, for it all, Antonio just couldn't seem to take his eyes off of Gilbert. Maybe Antonio shared that community opinion of Gilbert being a grand war hero.

Alfred didn't seem quite as fascinated as Antonio, and Ludwig could see that Alfred looked a bit more uneasy with every day that passed.

It all came down to Ludwig not paying Alfred attention, Ludwig knew that. Knew that Alfred was agitated and jealous, even if he would have keeled over before he admitted it. Knew that Alfred had been so excited to be 'together' as he had just claimed, had been eager to start a life together, and Gilbert had knocked them both off of course.

Alfred tried hard the next week to reclaim Ludwig's attention and affection, creeping up on him every second that Gilbert was out of sight, embracing him at times and caressing him at others, sometimes stealing a kiss and other times whispering in his ear. Ludwig could tell that Alfred was very ready to take over this house, was ready to officially become Ludwig's man in every sense, and was trying very hard to remind Ludwig of that.

He remembered, of course he did, and was well aware of it, and he understood that Gilbert's presence didn't mean as much to Alfred as it did Ludwig, and that Alfred could never truly understand the way Ludwig felt.

Ludwig felt as if he were quite torn between them.

What seemed to annoy Alfred the most was that, every time Gilbert came downstairs or out of the kitchen or through the door, Ludwig jumped furiously and jerked away from Alfred, face red and absolutely mortified.

Knew that he was hurting Alfred's feelings, he knew that, understood, but he just couldn't help it—the thought of Gilbert knowing was well beyond terrifying.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was a pointless endeavor, because he didn't always get away from Alfred's powerful arms quickly enough and often Gilbert would fall still in his tracks and stare at them rather curiously.

Ludwig was petrified. So awful, being caught like that between them, as Gilbert stared and analyzed and as Alfred huffed and scoffed and glowered away at the wall.

What could he do?

Had just been reunited with Gilbert, and couldn't stand the thought of him turning away, not now, after all of this. Just for this. Something like this.

Days passed, and Alfred had been getting so antsy, so impatient, so agitated, and one evening he had come over, stalked right inside, grabbed Ludwig by the arms and kissed him very eagerly, and when Gilbert started coming downstairs, Ludwig panicked and tried to break free.

That horrible look of exasperation and anger and annoyance on Alfred's face, and Ludwig's efforts seemed to have little point, because Alfred was still clenching his arms when Gilbert was in sight. Another frightening instance of Gilbert lifting his brow and studying them very intently. Alfred's heavy sigh, as he let Ludwig go and went over to sulk on the couch. Gilbert was wise enough then not to say a word, treading silently into the kitchen. Ludwig followed him, and felt the pang of hurt when he heard the door slam shortly after.

Oh, Alfred...

Hoped he understood how sorry Ludwig was.

The first day of the third week, it finally happened.

It was only a matter of time, really, but it still terrified Ludwig when Gilbert finally asked that morning very early over coffee, "So, Lutz. Uh—that guy. Who is he?"

Knew that Gilbert wasn't talking about Antonio, and from the rather furiously focused look on Gilbert's face, Ludwig knew that Gilbert had a great many suspicions. Hard not to, really, when Alfred had no shame and was unable to keep his hands to himself and Ludwig was just too slow to escape him.

Ludwig found his coffee extremely interesting suddenly, because he stared at it for a good few minutes as he tried to slow his pulse and steady his breathing.

Gilbert had crossed halfway across the world to find him, and Ludwig just didn't want him to ever regret that. To think that Gilbert would ever sit there and think to himself that he should have chosen another orphan instead.

Gilbert had to have seen his anxiety, because it was surely quite apparent, and Ludwig heard the chair scraping across the tile as Gilbert scooted over to him until he was close enough to press them together.

Gilbert elbowed his side, gently, jostling him until he looked up, and when he did, anxiously, Gilbert was smirking at him.

"Hm! What's that look about? I'm not _that_ stupid, you know? I thought you would have just told me by now. No offense or nothin', but it's pretty obvious."

Could feel his face blazing red, as he dropped his head once more and avoided Gilbert's gaze.

An arm stretched out and fell over his shoulders, dragging him in and squeezing him, and Gilbert shook him rather firmly.

"Hey. What? Why you look so scared? What did you think I would do? I came all this way for you. Did you think I would just go back home?"

Dumbly, Ludwig nodded.

Gilbert nearly balked at that, and shook him harder, hissing, "I was joking—you really thought that? After I came all this way? You thought I'd really leave you again? Never again. I promised. I don't care— Ah, shit, Lutz. You don't know the things I've seen and done. You and him is nothin' to me. Believe that."

That was wonderful and awful at the same time, and Ludwig lifted his eyes back up to Gilbert, and could only think to say, sixteen years too late, "I love you."

Hadn't said it before Gilbert had left home that day.

Gilbert's smile then was quite the work of art, a masterpiece in Ludwig's eyes, and Gilbert just pressed forward and kissed his cheek.

"I told you I'd never leave you, and I meant it. So stop worrying about it."

Ludwig managed a nod.

After a long silence, Gilbert murmured, "Hey. Sorry. You know? He's probably— Well. You got your own life now. I didn't exactly mean to come crashing in like this. I know I'm probably—"

Ludwig reached out, pressed his fingers over Gilbert's lips to silence him, and let his stare then say everything he was thinking.

Gilbert's face softened, his brow lifted, and it was clear that the message was received and returned.

Gilbert came first, Gilbert was his primary focus now, but Ludwig wasn't about to lose Alfred, was absolutely bound and determined to keep him, and struggled very hard in the ensuing days, in light of Gilbert's blessing, to find a pace that he could keep up with. Hard to balance the both of them, because they were both loud and obnoxious and abrasive, and when they were face to face it was somewhat tense.

Thank god they couldn't understand each other, because they would have frequently gotten into fist-fights, no doubt.

Antonio seemed to enjoy Gilbert's brashness and rough voice, but the same couldn't be said of Alfred.

Gilbert had always been loud and aggressive, belligerent without always meaning to be, and the sound of his voice and the way he carried himself made him extremely threatening and intimidating. Ludwig knew that Alfred was put off by Gilbert in a bad way. Could see it on his face and in his stance, and when Gilbert spoke, so brashly in that booming voice, sometimes Alfred looked anxious and nervous.

It stung a little, honestly, because Ludwig knew that deep down Alfred was scared of Gilbert because he was everything Alfred had been taught to hate.

The sound of Gilbert's voice made Alfred flinch. Alfred didn't mean it, he knew that, probably didn't even realize he was doing it, but whenever Gilbert was around Alfred started looking for quick exits.

Hard for anyone to throw away a lifetime of instilled hatred.

Alfred was only a man, after all, and Gilbert made him uneasy, because Gilbert was a brash German who could speak no English and who looked so hard and cold and frightening.

Well. Ludwig had always known that Alfred was certainly far from perfect in every possible way, knew that Alfred tried his best, knew that everyone had faults, and knew, above it all, that Alfred was a good person. Alfred being leery and mistrustful of Gilbert was hardly a deterrent, after everything, and Ludwig could only take it for what it was.

Would never be able to lose any of his adoration for Alfred, and knew that he needed to make that more obvious as Alfred found himself stranded there on this uncertain shore.

The weather was ever cooler, and the leaves were beginning to change colors. So long now that they hadn't gone on their Sunday walk, and Ludwig was feeling it.

One Saturday afternoon, Ludwig found himself with Alfred. Antonio wasn't there, Gilbert was asleep upstairs, and it was a now rare moment for them to be alone together for a little while. Tried to make the most of it, despite Alfred's relentless sulking.

Alfred was pouting, silently, as he always was these days, and Ludwig snorted to himself before slinking over and settling in beside of him on the couch.

Poor thing.

Hated this, he really did. Hated this distance and this solitude as much as Alfred did.

Alfred glanced over at Ludwig from above his crossed his arms, legs splayed out and boots clunking around, and he didn't speak. Ludwig crept a little closer, and wondered how long it would take for Alfred to crack.

Not long at all.

With another quick glance, Alfred asked, grumpily, "So, got any time for me today?"

Ludwig snorted, was finally pressing into Alfred's side, and replied, "I'm here now, aren't I?"

A deep, "Hm!"

Maybe that didn't make up for all of the times he had hurt Alfred's feelings these past weeks, but all Ludwig could do was try, and Alfred was still here, wasn't he, so he couldn't have been that mad.

Ludwig made a rather grand show then of snuggling into Alfred's side, his pride long since gone, and Alfred glanced very quickly and very frequently at him, and yet his arms were still crossed, and he was clearly trying very hard to be strong and stubborn.

For now.

Ludwig rested his head on Alfred's shoulder, and after a long while he said, in his deepest whisper, "How I miss you."

A noise of agitation.

Suddenly, a movement.

Alfred's arm flew up then and rested above Ludwig's shoulders, and Ludwig glanced up at the clock. Five minutes? Impressive; Alfred had actually held out for longer than expected.

Fingers dug into his shoulder as Alfred jostled him, and Ludwig tried very hard not to smile as he squirmed ever over and twisted at the side to press his nose into Alfred's. Could see the line of tension ever receding on Alfred's forehead, and when Ludwig put his hand on Alfred's cheek, the war was won.

Alfred smirked.

A low tease.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away from me for too long."

"No," Ludwig immediately confirmed. "I just can't. God only knows why."

If only Alfred knew how much Ludwig really did miss him.

Perhaps in an effort to appear more sensitive than he actually was, Alfred asked, rather drolly, "How is Gilbert doing?"

"Better than I thought," Ludwig said, and meant that.

Gilbert was doing remarkably well.

Alfred stared at him, and from his pursed lips and crinkled brow, Ludwig wondered if maybe Alfred had been wondering exactly how well Gilbert was doing for his own chances of reclaiming Ludwig's attention. Wanted that spot where Gilbert slept, and yet wasn't so tactless as to say so, and even someone as selfish and bratty as Alfred would never dream to kick a prisoner of war out onto the couch so he could have the bed.

Alfred opened his mouth, fell silent, seemed to be rethinking whatever he had wanted to say, and finally came out with a low, quiet, "I know it's not a good time, but I... I really miss you. I can't stand not being able to be with you. I don't mean to be a jerk, but— Ah, hell."

Alfred trailed off, apparently realizing that there was nothing he could really say that wouldn't paint him in a less than pristine light.

A little selfishness was natural, and Ludwig didn't hold it against him, although he did wish that Alfred could be more patient. Eventually, Ludwig would find a solution, although in all fairness it was more likely that he would rely on serendipity to find it rather than actively seek it out, as he often had.

What Alfred had really wanted to ask, no doubt, was, 'How long is he going to be here?'

Knew that, sooner or later, Gilbert would need his own place. That, or this would become Gilbert's home and he and Alfred would have to seek out something for themselves. Couldn't sleep in bed with his big brother for the rest of his life. Couldn't exist perpetually in this blissfully childlike state.

Alfred was always waiting for him.

They didn't speak after that, but when Ludwig turned Alfred's head and kissed him, Alfred seemed to calm down a little and cheer up.

Alfred was a jerk, but damn if Ludwig didn't love him to death, and they were wrapped up there in each others arms for long, wonderful minutes. For a while there, Alfred might have actually smiled. As beautiful as Gilbert's smiles, those of Alfred, because Ludwig loved him.

The good mood didn't last.

Gilbert's footsteps were suddenly heavy on the stairs, and Alfred jerked his arm away from Ludwig and scoffed, already glowering away again at the wall. Ludwig stared at him for a while, sadly, before standing and turning his attention to Gilbert, who greeted him as he always did by ruffling his hair.

Alfred stood up, too, and said, tersely, "See you later."

Ludwig watched him go to the door, and asked, quietly, "Where are you going?"

"I don't know."

An awful, pulsing dread.

Had just gotten Alfred, and was so scared of losing him because he wasn't able to pay as much attention to Alfred as Alfred was used to. Alfred wanted a relationship, and Ludwig was putting him in the corner for Gilbert.

"Are you coming back?"

Alfred's pursed lips and low brow.

Anxiety.

After a hesitation, Alfred muttered, "Yeah. Sure."

That didn't sound very convincing.

As Alfred pulled himself up straight, he avoided Ludwig's gaze as he turned to the door, and said, in nearly a whisper, "Don't know why you want me to. You've forgotten I exist."

Ludwig knew his face had fallen, because Gilbert was watching very pryingly and looked quite agitated.

Alfred opened the door, and stepped out, and Ludwig was glad for that just that once because the last thing he needed was Gilbert shouting at Alfred for something none of them really understood too much.

Ludwig followed Alfred out onto the steps, shutting the door behind him, and he reached out at the last second in a moment of bravery and grabbed Alfred's arm. Alfred humored him and fell still, but he wasn't smiling and he didn't look over at him.

All Ludwig could think of to do was to say, softly, "I'm sorry."

Didn't know why or for what, but said it anyway because he didn't want Alfred to leave.

An awful silence.

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, Alfred slumped in what very well could have been defeat, he sighed heavily through his nose, and at last he turned his head and met Ludwig's gaze.

"No," he said, in a deep whisper. "Don't— You don't need to be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. Really. I just... I just feel like I'm in the way. You don't really need me right now. I know when to step aside. It's alright. Take care of _him_."

Alfred pried himself gently from Ludwig's grasp, clapped his shoulder gently, and started walking away.

Ludwig watched him go, and felt alarmingly close to tears in that moment. Pitiful, he knew it, but the thought of Alfred not coming back was devastating.

He couldn't help it; as Alfred hit the sidewalk, Ludwig said, so lowly, "But I do need you."

Thought for a horrible second that Alfred hadn't heard him, as he kept walking, but he fell still shortly after, looked over his shoulder, stared at Ludwig for a while, and then just gave him a rather curt nod.

A whisper.

"I'll come back. I promise."

Promise.

Alfred always kept his promises, and all Ludwig could do was accept it, squint his eyes and gather up his composure, take a breath, and go back inside.

Gilbert was staring at him from the doorframe of the kitchen, and he knew that Gilbert could see how hard he was trying to keep it together, because Gilbert saw everything.

A hesitation, and then Gilbert said, as Ludwig had, "I'm sorry."

As Alfred had, Ludwig said, "You don't need to be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."

Gilbert came forward, grabbed Ludwig by the back of the neck, and led him down to the kitchen table. They were rather quiet that night, and Gilbert reached out sometimes to nudge Ludwig's jaw with a balled fist, jostling him and trying to make him smile.

Impossible not to smile when Gilbert was there, but it was so hard not to feel lost all the same and Ludwig just couldn't pull it off. Had become so reliant on Alfred, so attached to him, so dependent upon him, that the thought of him leaving was almost as earth-shattering as Gilbert leaving had been.

Unfathomable.

Gilbert grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and murmured, to cheer him up, "What are you so worried about, huh? He'll be back. Who could stay away from you? I sure couldn't. Don't know if you've noticed, but you're a damn handsome bastard. No one would stay away." When Ludwig's smile fell halfway, Gilbert gave his hand a good shake, smirked, ran his other hand through his own hair, and added, "You're almost as handsome as me, you know. Almost."

At last, with a scoff, Ludwig smiled.

Gilbert seemed to light up at the sight of it, and his face softened once more.

Still, the night was very quiet, and Gilbert seemed rather subdued as Ludwig stared off into the distance. When Antonio came by later, it was he who was making conversation with Gilbert, for the first time, because Ludwig was too out in space.

Just let Gilbert and Antonio get to know each other, and pined for Alfred from afar.

Pining wasn't exactly necessary, as it turned out.

Alfred kept his promise, and came back the next day, very early in the morning. So early, actually, that Ludwig hadn't expected that it was Alfred when he went to the door, assuming instead it was a neighbor swinging by to offer assistance.

Was quite shocked when he opened the door and saw Alfred standing there, more so because Alfred was dressed very neatly and had combed his hair back and had a bouquet of flowers held out in front of him.

...was he blushing? Pretty sure he was blushing. Damn.

Before Ludwig could say anything, Alfred said, softly, "Hey. These are for you. Sorry I was such a jerk. I don't mean to me. I just miss you a lot."

Alfred stood there, flowers held out expectantly, and Ludwig was almost too entranced by Alfred to get his hands working long enough to actually reach forward and accept them. But of course accept them he did, because obviously, and Alfred smiled a little when the flowers were in his hands. Looked relieved almost, as if he had been worried he would be snubbed. Wouldn't be the first time, and with the way Alfred was it probably wouldn't be the last.

For now, though, Ludwig was desperate to keep Alfred, and would have instantly forgiven anything he did and would have equally accepted any half-assed apology he offered.

Ludwig stepped back, dumbly, Alfred crossed the threshold and kissed his cheek as he passed, and went straight into the kitchen. Ludwig followed him, as he often did, and found a glass to put the flowers in and set them on the counter. Well. Had always wondered what it would feel like to get flowers from Alfred. Felt great, actually. Something else he loved, against his pride.

Ludwig sat down across from Alfred, took in his tidy clothing and slicked hair, how handsome he was in that moment as a whole, and knew that Alfred really was sorry. Wondered if Alfred had even slept at all the night before, because it was very unusual for him to be awake this early, and the circles under his eyes were rather prominent. Maybe Alfred had been as lost in space the entire night as Ludwig had been.

When Gilbert came trudging sleepily downstairs soon after, Ludwig took the chance to take a shower, as quickly as he could, reluctant to leave Alfred and Gilbert alone for too long, especially after the prior day had gone so badly.

Oh, Alfred. Really was a wonderful man, deep down under all of his flaws.

Ludwig passed Gilbert, they bumped shoulders in silent greeting, and Ludwig took the quickest shower known to man, he was sure of it.

Yet, his panic was unjustified, as much as his pining had been.

Gilbert and Alfred were sitting at the kitchen table together when Ludwig came back downstairs, and that was a first. Incredible, actually, remarkable. Ludwig stopped short in the frame and watched them, as they leaned in a bit over the table to converse with each other over coffee.

Alfred was saying, very slowly, "Do you want to have a drink?"

It was clear enough that they were tossing sentences back and forth in English and German and trying to figure out how to speak to each other.

After a while of Gilbert butchering the English language brutally and giving Alfred a good laugh for it, they finally saw him there, and Gilbert immediately cried, "Lutz, this is impossible! How the hell did you learn? I can actually speak a lot of Russian now, go figure, and this somehow sounds harder. Makes no sense."

Alfred watched them quite eagerly, and Ludwig knew that he loved hearing German when it was spoken although he never made a real effort to learn any.

Ludwig came over, stood above them, and finally said, "You just got here. Give it time. It gets easier. I didn't speak hardly any when I came. I had to learn this side, too."

Gilbert grimaced, but seemed a little more encouraged.

Alfred interjected, as he often did when no one was paying him attention, "So, you done already? You haven't learned anything yet."

Gilbert's pitiful stare of incomprehension.

And Ludwig wanted so badly to smile then, he did, but he couldn't, because he was dreading the day when he had to turn to Gilbert and say, 'Be careful who you speak our language around.'

Dreaded it, in particular because of Gilbert's bad temper. Alfred was the bravest man Ludwig knew, and even he shifted under the awful sound of Gilbert's commanding voice. Ludwig could only imagine how a normal person would have run in the opposite direction. Gilbert would get into trouble without ever even meaning to.

All the better for Gilbert to sit here and try to learn from Alfred, maybe, so that he wouldn't have to learn the hard way like Ludwig had.

Alfred looked up at Ludwig a while later, and Ludwig could see in his halfhearted smile that Alfred was attempting to convey to him that he was trying.

Trying was all anyone could ever really ask for, and especially from someone like Alfred, so Ludwig just nodded his head and hoped that Alfred would continue being as patient as possible with this situation.

Gilbert drew Alfred's attention with his hand, jerked his thumb over to the flowers on the counter, and said, very gruffly and very seriously, "If you pull something like that again and make my little brother cry, you're gonna be the mulch underneath those fuckin' flowers. You don't even know what kind of brother-in-law you just got. I'm _always_ watching you."

That time it was Alfred who stared in incomprehension, and oh man, was Ludwig grateful for that one.

Oh, Gilbert. As protective now as he ever had been.

Alfred, feeling awkward perhaps, looked at Ludwig and said, almost anxiously, "Say. It's Sunday. Think we can manage a walk? Maybe he should get out a little."

Well.

That may have been true, and Ludwig turned to Gilbert and asked, "Would you like to go for a walk in the park? Get some fresh air? It might be good for you."

Gilbert perked up, and seemed eager.

"Sounds great."

Ludwig gave Alfred a nod of confirmation, and suddenly they were all in front of the door together, and Ludwig felt so surreal. Going on his weekly walk with the man he was in love with on one side, with the man he thought he had lost forever on his other side. One of the most astounding moments of his life.

When they walked out, Alfred fell into his side, leaned in, and whispered, thinly, "Did your brother insult my flowers?"

Ludwig bit down his smile, and lied, "Yes."

Because that was the lesser of two evils, he supposed, although Alfred looked quite offended all the same and gave a rather huffy 'hmph!'

Gilbert was too busy gawking at everything around him to even care about Alfred, and Ludwig was fairly certain he was actually beaming like a moron as they walked together for the first time.

Beautiful.

Seeing Gilbert in the park was a dream he had never known he had had at all until it had come true. Alfred was quiet the entire walk, surrendering the lead to Ludwig, and Ludwig took his time and drew it out for Gilbert's sake, because it was apparent how happy he was to be outside and amongst trees and grass and the fall flowers.

Despite his silence, when they arrived home late in the evening Alfred seemed content enough. Didn't seem morose or cranky anymore, and when he said goodnight that time and left, it was in much better humor.

Gilbert, having gone out at last, apparently decided that he was ready for daily outings, because the next morning when Ludwig said goodbye, Gilbert said, "You don't have an extra key, do you? So I can go walking while you're gone?"

A squirm of unease. Didn't really want Gilbert wandering around alone, the way he was.

Ludwig could only say, "No. I'll make you one."

No choice, and Gilbert just nodded.

To keep him occupied and from getting too restless, Ludwig tried, hopefully, "I have a few English dictionaries up in my room. You should study."

"Eh."

Hardly a commitment, but Ludwig could only take it for what it was, and hoped Gilbert was just bored enough to actually study.

But he wasn't, and it was Antonio, in the end, who sort of ruined Ludwig's plans, because Antonio didn't speak any English either, so very little, and so Antonio would only speak to Gilbert in German, and Gilbert became very complacent with that and stopped trying to learn.

Ludwig didn't really have the heart to push Gilbert any more than he had had to push Antonio. If they didn't want to learn more than the absolute basics, then that was on them, really. Couldn't make them want to make their lives easier.

Anyway, Ludwig was happy to see Gilbert making a friend in Antonio. They had taken to each other after their first awkward conversation, and Antonio seemed to like Gilbert well enough and was happy to come over on his two weekdays off when Ludwig was working. Didn't have to worry so much about Gilbert being alone all the time.

They got on _very_ well, actually, Gilbert and Antonio, seemed to click and hit it off right at the start. Another thing to not worry about.

Alfred seemed quite pleased as well, and Ludwig knew damn well why, although Alfred would have never admitted it. With Antonio stealing some of Gilbert's attention, of course, it freed up Ludwig's hands to go right back to Alfred, and for that Alfred suddenly seemed to like Antonio a great deal more than he had before.

These men he found himself with.

Antonio would invite Gilbert on walks, and Alfred was the one who looked excited when he saw them going to the door, as if it was his adventure rather than Gilbert's.

And yet...

Ludwig was happy enough to have time alone with Alfred, certainly, and was happier yet that Gilbert was active and content and making a friend and seeing the open world.

However.

It was becoming increasingly clear that Gilbert was quite the troublemaker indeed, and now that he had been unleashed, so to speak, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to end up in a very loud argument or in a fight. Had witnessed it numerous times himself, and had heard more than a few stories from Antonio.

The smallest things seemed to set Gilbert off outside, stupid things, utterly inconsequential things, and Gilbert would fly into a rage.

Gilbert had seemed so well-adjusted at first glance. Ludwig had been astounded at how stable and perfectly able to carry on Gilbert was. How unbothered and strong. Carefree.

Maybe not quite as stable as Ludwig had first thought. Inside the house, Gilbert was fine. Around Ludwig, Gilbert was calm enough.

Things changed outside the door, and Gilbert was violent and unpredictable. Calm one second and furious the next. Seemed to want to fight, wanted to cause havoc, wanted to start arguments with complete strangers. Gilbert snapped with the change of the breeze, and Ludwig was terrified by that.

Wished, more than anything, that he had realized and noticed Gilbert's emotional instability before he had had a key made for him, because now Gilbert was free to roam as he would.

Ludwig spent his days at work now furiously worrying every second, because Gilbert hated being cooped up in the house and loved to roam the streets, and roaming the streets always seemed to end in confrontation. His greatest fear these days was of having Gilbert being arrested and quickly deported, and then Ludwig's world would crash down all over again.

Oh god, if Gilbert were deported—!

The most awful thought possible, because then Ludwig would have to stand there and make a hard decision as whether to stay here in New York with Alfred, or to go back to Germany to be with Gilbert.

Even thinking about ever having to make that decision made him physically ill.

One afternoon, after several weeks of stressing so much over it, Ludwig hung his head over his papers, clenched his fingers in his hair, and dissolved momentarily into tears.

Pulled himself together quickly enough, because he was at work and he could cry later in the shower, but the damage had been done, and he had gone straight home afterwards, quite frantically, and had immediately ran up to Gilbert as soon as he came through the door.

Gilbert looked up at him from the couch, saw his distress, sat up straight, but before he could ask questions, Ludwig had already sat down and embraced Gilbert around the neck and said, in a muffled moan, "Please! Please, please, please don't get into trouble. Please. If you were deported, I can't— I won't know what to do. Please, Gilbert, I'm so worried, please stop getting into fights. Please. I just got you back. I can't lose you again."

Gilbert was utterly still and quiet within his furious embrace, as Ludwig buried his face in Gilbert's shoulder to spare his pride as he blubbered away, and it took a long while before Gilbert raised up his hands and rested them on Ludwig's back.

Lips in hair.

Took longer yet for Gilbert to speak, as Ludwig burrowed away there in his shoulder, and his voice was that deep rumble that he used when he was feeling vulnerable.

"I'm sorry, Lutz. I just— I don't think about it. I don't mean to. I'm just so used to that. I guess fighting is...well. Normal for me, now. I didn't really think about it. I'm sorry. I think maybe I'm not used to the real world yet. Think I forgot how to be around people. Sorry."

Ludwig shook his head, buried as it was, and muttered, thickly, "It's not your fault. I know that. But please, please. You can't keep doing that. Please. If you want... I'll find you someone to talk to, if you want. If that would help you."

Gilbert scoffed.

"What, like a therapist or something?"

Ludwig nodded, Gilbert yet holding there.

"You'd have to find a damn good one, Lutz. Think I'm a little beyond the normal case."

Ludwig lifted his head up, at last, knew his eyes were red, and said, immediately, "If you'd go, really go, I'd find you one. No matter what."

From the look on Gilbert's face, it was very clear that he would never go to a therapist, because Gilbert was far too proud and self-reliant for that, and said as much when he whispered, "I'll work on it. Really. For you, I swear, I'll figure it out. Like I said, I just didn't think about it. Now that I know how you feel—I'll work on it. I didn't come all this way to get sent back home. I'm sorry. I'll get it down, you'll see. I promise."

As much as Ludwig trusted Alfred's promises, he trusted Gilbert's, because Gilbert had kept the grandest one, if not with a slight delay.

All Ludwig could do was nod his head, trust Gilbert, and hope that Gilbert could manage to wrangle his emotions and impulses just well enough to not get arrested.

Hope.

Had had so much of that lately, and kept on clinging to it.

Alfred looked about as worried as Ludwig did, and yet Ludwig was surprised somehow that it was Antonio, of all people, mister I-am-so-worried-about-you, that didn't seem much bothered by Gilbert's fighting. As if Antonio just didn't think it was a big deal. Antonio could be quite the hot-head, yes, but it just seemed so strange to Ludwig, how drastic Antonio's reaction was to an emotionally unstable Ludwig and an emotionally unstable Gilbert.

...well, on second thought, perhaps there was quite a drastic difference. Gilbert, after all, only caused harm to others, and not himself.

Gilbert wasn't blind to Antonio's complacency, and went out walking with him far more frequently, to Ludwig's chagrin. Didn't know if Gilbert would hold himself to the same standards of 'trying' with Antonio as he did when he was with Ludwig and Alfred.

As was the story of his life, all Ludwig could do was watch and wait and hope.

And then suddenly, one night three months after Gilbert had walked through that door, Alfred and Ludwig were finally home alone.

It was the first sleet of the ending fall.

Gilbert had gone over to Antonio's, and from the sound of it he intended to spend a few days over there, potentially scouting out Antonio as a possible roommate. Gilbert was utterly tactless, but even Gilbert could see that he was intruding on a rather personal environment here. Like Ludwig, Gilbert knew that he couldn't take up his little brother's bed forever.

Alfred came home, shaking sleet from his hair, and when he shut the door behind him and didn't see Gilbert, he immediately began the interrogation.

"Where'd he go? Didn't get locked up, did he?"

Ludwig snorted from over his coffee, because that was a valid question and Alfred being worried about Gilbert made him oddly happy.

Alfred always tried his best.

"No. He's spending the night with Antonio. He might try to move in over there. Antonio needs a roommate."

Just like that, Alfred lit up like the sun.

"You mean I finally have my bed, huh?"

From the way Alfred had come up behind him and placed hands on his shoulders to lean over and whisper that in his ear, Ludwig was pretty certain that Alfred was very much intending to make up for lost time.

"It looks that way."

Because it was Alfred's bed, after all, had been from the moment Ludwig had told him they lived together. Just hadn't had the chance to claim it.

Alfred squeezed his shoulders, and snorted.

Nearly shivered there under Alfred's warm hands.

Sure enough, Ludwig had been right about Alfred, because he wasn't even allowed to finish his coffee before Alfred had grabbed him by the arm and hauled him forcibly upright. Ludwig didn't even get a chance to say anything at all, not with Alfred grabbing him up and kissing him so furiously that he couldn't even breath, let alone hope to get a word out.

A long, breathless moment of being immobile in Alfred's powerful grasp, and then the next thing Ludwig knew he was being very nearly carted upstairs. From the awkward way Alfred had jostled him for a moment there, Ludwig was fairly certain that Alfred had actually been intending to pick Ludwig up and sling him over his shoulder, but had decided against it at the last second.

...what a shame.

Next time, maybe. Alfred certainly had the muscle for such a feat, although Ludwig was by no means a small man.

Instead, Alfred merely clenched him by the waist and forced him backwards up the stairs as Alfred held him steady from one step beneath, and somehow they made it to the top without anyone breaking their neck or breaking that kiss. Alfred seemed to grow more impressive with every day that passed. Not that Ludwig had anyone or anything to compare him to, but Ludwig was confident in Alfred's abilities. If only because Alfred was, perhaps.

Alfred didn't exactly shove him through the bedroom door straight away, to be fair, nearly slamming him into it instead in his eagerness and pinning him there. Had nearly knocked the wind out of him. Could never accuse Alfred of being less than enthusiastic with most things he did.

As usual, all Ludwig could really do was hang on for the ride, because Alfred did what he wanted.

Sometimes it was much more pleasant than others, and before long his fingers were tangled in Alfred's messy hair as Alfred's lips ran down his neck. Ludwig supposed that a downside of being taller than Alfred was the ease it gave Alfred to assault his neck. ...downside? Well. That was a bit far. Maybe not a downside so much as a perk, because Alfred seemed to be very much taking advantage of it.

A shift of Alfred's weight, a fumble, as he searched blindly for the doorknob and twisted it, nearly sending them backwards onto the floor when he turned it and the door flew open under their weight. Alfred caught him skillfully enough and corrected their balance.

It was quite warm suddenly, the air seemed far too heavy, and while Ludwig was sure he would rather be in this time and place right now than anywhere else on earth, there was an undeniable rise of anxiety with every step back Alfred shoved him.

Nervousness.

Too much pressure, in a way, and it made his head spin quite a bit to stand there and actually realize what was about to happen. Had been kissed for the first time so recently, and he felt quite overwhelmed. Inadequate, standing next to someone like Alfred, who had obviously been around the block, so to speak. Literally, no doubt, as much of a show off as he was.

Ah, no good to be thinking of exactly how many other people had found themselves clenched in Alfred's hands. He was the one here now, and focus was recommended. Very hard to find it though, because he was desperate just to not think much about it or otherwise he very well could have dropped dead there in Alfred's arms from sheer terror and humiliation.

Had never touched anyone.

Panic was far too close to the surface when Alfred finally hit the edge of the bed and rather unceremoniously shoved him by the chest back down onto it. Didn't have time to berate him or run away screaming, though, because Alfred quite heavily fell atop him and pinned him there.

Oh no—

No getting out of it now. Not that he wanted to, but did he ever, and he knew that that made absolutely no sense but he was so nervous then that he didn't know which way was up and what he wanted and knew even less of what to do or expect.

Helplessness.

Ludwig was grateful, more than he could ever have expressed in words, that Alfred at least hadn't flipped the light on at the last second. Would have been far too self-conscious and mortified to have ever let Alfred get this far.

Oh, man, where had his shirt gone? And his belt, for that matter.

He had been terribly distracted.

The light of the city struggled to break in through the thin blanket thrown over the window, casting the room in pale shades of grey and blue.

Alfred's fingers were fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and Ludwig was still immobilized in panic. Alfred's shirt vanished shortly after, apparently lost in that same black hole that Ludwig's had fallen into. The feel of Alfred's warm skin against his own. Rough hands, running down his sides.

The sound of a zipper, as Alfred urgently tried to get rid of his pants.

And then, suddenly, a hesitation.

Alfred randomly pulled back a bit, chest heaving and breath so heavy in his ear, and then he asked, huskily, "Hey— You ever done this before?"

A moment of fear and anxiety, and Ludwig froze up, because he didn't want to be honest but knew he couldn't lie.

After an awkward hesitation, Ludwig just breathed, "No."

A long silence, and then Alfred hissed air through his teeth and pulled back just a bit, cursing, "Shit."

Immediately, Ludwig said, as he did far too frequently these days, "I'm sorry."

Wanted an out in some way, but didn't want Alfred to stop at the same time.

Alfred snatched out, grabbed his jaw a bit more forcefully than he probably meant to, and griped, "Stop sayin' that, won't'cha?"

Ludwig opened his mouth to say again, 'I'm sorry,' and cut him himself off halfway at the stern look Alfred shot him.

Didn't know why he had been saying it so much lately, except for perhaps that he was so nervous. His desperation, as it was, to keep hold of this wonderful situation in which he found himself. Had security, had stability, had two people that loved him and that he loved more than anything, and didn't to ruin it again.

He was such bad luck, after all.

Alfred released that painful grip, his expression softened, and he whispered, as he once more resumed freeing himself of his pants, "I liked it better when you told me what was what."

Could have been the nervousness, could have been reassurance, or it could have just been him siphoning confidence from Alfred as he so often had. Whatever it was, that awful anxiety calmed, the terror faded, nervousness abated, and when Alfred's clumsy hands began tugging furiously at Ludwig's pants, Ludwig squirmed helpfully out of them while chiding, gruffly, "Why is this taking you so long? Have you never dressed yourself?"

He was still very perfectly capable of telling Alfred what was what, and always would be. Lord knew someone had to keep that peacock in check.

Alfred scoffed, and griped, "I take it back."

No, he didn't, and it was obvious from the way Alfred threw the last articles of clothing across the room with zeal and fell forward.

Ludwig found his hands flying up to Alfred's back to tug him down farther, because he had been thrust into far more terrifying situations than this, with no one there beside of him.

No need to fret when Alfred was near.

A knee wound up between his legs, as Alfred all but attempted to suffocate him with that never-ending kiss, his own hands having long since wound up on Alfred's broad shoulders.

Their eyes met when Alfred pulled back, and Ludwig hoped that Alfred could see that he wasn't nervous anymore. That Alfred could somehow sense and understand everything Ludwig was feeling in that moment, because it was too intangible to express aloud.

A whisper in his ear, as Alfred leaned forward.

"Just tell me if I hurt ya or something, alright? If you want me to stop. Just say something."

Impossible. Would have been far too beyond mortified to ever think of such a thing, but Alfred had fallen utterly still above him and made no motion to continue as he waited for Ludwig's response.

With little choice, Ludwig nodded his head.

Not good enough, apparently, for Alfred pressed, "I mean it. I know you. You won't say anything at all."

This entire ordeal, this entire act, was rather sensational enough as it was, and yet somehow it was that simple statement from Alfred that meant the most to Ludwig then. 'I know you.' No one ever had, not truly. Nothing more than what Ludwig presented on the surface. Nothing that the world could see, beneath the ice and distance.

No one had ever loved him in this manner before Alfred, and it seemed astronomically improbable that their crossed paths could have ever entangled them in this way, and yet for it all Ludwig found everything then to be perfectly in order. Alfred did know him, after all, as much as Ludwig knew Alfred, and perhaps in that sense they were meant to be.

Everything was right, suddenly.

For the first time since Gilbert had left that day, it felt as if the world around him was once more as he wanted it to be.

When his hands came to rest on Alfred's face, Alfred closed his eyes, for just a moment, and Ludwig hoped that if he could take a sense of confidence from Alfred, then Alfred could take from him that sense of calm.

Wanted that more than anything.

Perhaps he could, because when Alfred opened his eyes, he spoke, and what he said then was the first real attempt that either one of them had ever given to express any sort of emotional sentiment.

"I think I'm in love with you."

Dazed elation.

That was the last either of them spoke, as Alfred's words hung there over the silence.

Hands running down his thighs. Heavy breathing.

Lately, it seemed that Ludwig had been considering that he was having 'the best moment' of his life. Between Alfred and Gilbert, there was so much to look forward to, so much to be happy about. So many things, and so maybe Ludwig couldn't say that this was one of the best moments of his life, but it was certainly the time in his life that he had felt the most important.

Worth something to someone, worth time and love, outside of the familial sphere.

Having someone go from being a stranger to a lover and the entire wonderful in between.

A fair bit of pain.

Alfred was surprisingly tentative and careful those first few minutes, as he apparently tried his best to keep from hurting Ludwig, and it seemed to take him quite a while to realize that Ludwig wasn't panicking, wasn't scared, that Ludwig really did trust him. Once he finally seemed to grasp that, Alfred become more, well, _Alfred_ , more commanding and in charge and confident, more forward and bold and forceful.

Ludwig just clung to Alfred's shoulders the whole while, pressing his lips into Alfred's neck and running hands down his back in intervals.

The wondrous sound of Alfred's heavy breathing in his ear.

Every second felt much like an hour, those beautiful moments, that passage of time that that would be a memory in the morning and for it was more remarkable as it was happening.

Surreal.

Every so often Alfred would lean forward and kiss him, and Ludwig's fingers would tangle in his damp hair, heart thudding and wonderfully ecstatic at the rush of elation that only Alfred could ever really give him.

Alfred's rough hands gripped his thighs for balance, and Ludwig wondered if he really needed to because Ludwig's long legs were wrapped around him so tightly that it was unlikely they would ever be able to untangle themselves afterward.

Ludwig would have been perfectly content with that.

The sleet outside hammered away on the window.

He lost track of time, and could never have said how long it had been that he had been entangled there in Alfred before Alfred collapsed down on top of him heavily, chin digging into his collarbone and panting for air.

The creep of time, that slow lull of being in love.

His hands ran restlessly over Alfred's shoulders, through his hair, down his neck, his back, so fascinated yet by the feel of him that Ludwig just couldn't stop touching him.

A long, comfortable silence, as Alfred caught his breath.

Alfred's chest air agitated him enough to itch, but Ludwig didn't dare squirm because he didn't want Alfred to move. Would have kept him there for eternity were it possible.

Alfred seemed as reluctant to move, and stayed there above him without attempting to move a muscle.

And then a deep, rumbling giggle from Alfred.

"So," Alfred suddenly said, out of nowhere, "You ever gonna tell me what I said to make you laugh so hard? I forgot to ask."

The comforting feel of Alfred's weight above him. Security.

A snort, and Ludwig drawled, "Sure. Why not? You asked me if you could spend the night naked. I have to say, I didn't ever think it was going to happen."

Alfred laughed, loudly, and seemed quite pleased somehow.

Afterwards, Alfred said, rather proudly, "Well! I'm very convincing. I don't take 'no' for an answer."

Ludwig just muttered, "I noticed."

Alfred lifted his head, met Ludwig's gaze, and Ludwig could only sweep Alfred's hair off of his damp forehead and out of his eyes. Alfred closed his eyes at the touch, and was quiet after that.

They lied there for a good long while in the dull city light, drifting in and out under the sound of ice clinking against the window.

Somehow, Ludwig didn't feel awkward at all when Alfred rolled off of him later and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting there idly. Ludwig turned onto his side, watching Alfred's back, and what he felt then was something strangely like...

Couldn't put his finger on it, really, but he knew that it was wonderful. It was that feeling of home that he had once had, that sense of safety, that imaginary bubble that Ludwig had lived within that had shielded him from the outside world. The feeling of loving and knowing that he was loved in return, that someone out there wanted him and would seek to protect him. Of belonging.

Home.

Alfred's back, lit up in the faint glow of the outside lights, and when Alfred looked over his shoulder and back down at Ludwig, he felt at peace once more.

Tranquility.

A slanted smile, a long stare, and then Alfred stood up, and Ludwig followed him, as he would have anywhere. The evening carried on as normally as it always did, if not with brighter smiles and more playfulness.

Alfred seemed oddly subdued, rather calm and easy-going. In that moment, unkempt and messy and with that look on his face, Ludwig found Alfred to be beautiful.

That night, he fell asleep with Alfred's arm thrown over him, and in the morning he awoke to find himself pressed into Alfred's side.

That wondrous feeling—home. Recognized it instantly, because it was the most unforgettable sensation a man could ever feel. Being _home_.

A new routine, a new relationship, a new settling of the ground beneath their feet.

Alfred was his, and he was Alfred's, and this was their home for now. Their bed. Alfred leaned over the table and kissed him before he went to work, and Ludwig came up to Alfred and ran a hand down Alfred's cheek when he walked in through the door in the evening.

Ludwig's life had merged into Alfred's, and it was theirs.

When they went out together after that, no matter where or when, Alfred would always place his hand on Ludwig's back, and would very frequently grab his hand, and all they saw in those moments was the other.

Alfred had never been a discreet person, not once in his life, and never stopped to really think twice about the things he did or said, even right there in front of the world in its entirety, and when Ludwig was with him he got caught up in it. It was so easy to feel safe and secure around Alfred, and Ludwig was so entranced by him that it was easy to forget everything else.

In that blissful daze they were in, it never really seemed to occur to either one of them that the outside world didn't feel the way they did.

Ludwig was so bolstered by Gilbert's presence that he felt remarkably invincible, and he had never felt like that. For the second time in his life, Ludwig was in that wondrous, protective sphere of home, and time once more slowed as he fell into the warmth and safety of Alfred and Gilbert.

He felt invulnerable, and for that was blind to anything that wasn't Gilbert or Alfred, and neither of _them_ had ever been afraid of anything.

Alfred was too bold and fearless and confident to ever truly be cautious, to ever notice anything unpleasant, and even if Alfred had come across something he disliked it wouldn't matter, because Alfred wasn't afraid of anything. Nothing mattered to Alfred, nothing at all, as long as he was focused on what he wanted. Nothing shook him, nothing phased him, nothing knocked him off course, nothing scared him.

All Alfred could see was his goal.

All Ludwig could see was Alfred.


	21. My Charming Lady

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**My Charming Lady**

Life had become a bit of a balancing act for Alfred.

So strange and surreal, to feel such drastic emotional shifts mere minutes apart. To be so breathtakingly happy with Ludwig, to be so lost in that zone of perfection and harmony, and then to open the door and feel that creeping dread, anxiety, uncertainty.

The reverse, to come home seeped in apprehension and nervousness and then to find himself in Ludwig's arms, to shut the door behind him and let the world beyond dissolve away as he fell into Ludwig and the sense of love and protection he brought.

Ludwig was so happy, so bright, so engaged suddenly with the world and so optimistic, for the first time, and Alfred did everything he could to keep it that way. Absolutely kept himself just as bright and hopeful whenever he was with Ludwig, because he didn't want any of that light to dim.

Anything to hold on to that feeling.

If Ludwig felt safe when he was within Alfred's jacket, then Alfred's moment of safety came in those wonderful seconds that followed being wrapped up in Ludwig. That moment when he rested his head on Ludwig's chest and caught his breath, as time slowed and dulled, and Ludwig's hands ran over his back and shoulders. Fingers in his hair. A heartbeat underneath him.

Where he found his happiness.

Wouldn't lose that for anything, wouldn't let any of the dark creep in.

Keeping Ludwig content was his priority in life now, in this imaginary castle he was creating in his head. The old world didn't suit him anymore, didn't want him and he didn't want it, so he invented a new one entirely up in his mind. A world where he was very much the king, the knight, the ruler, where Ludwig was always safe under his arm and always smiling, where they could stand side by side, hand in hand, anywhere and anytime, where no one else existed but themselves. Nothing could ever go wrong, because Alfred commanded the universe entire. The movement of the sun, moon, stars, all carried out at his whim. The wind and rain and lightning came only at his call. The tides of the ocean were pulled by his order. Everything perfectly in harmony, perfectly planned, perfectly executed, and all, of course, at Ludwig's behest. Alfred was the king, but then that made Ludwig the queen, and of course the queen always pulled the strings. Anything and everything Alfred did was for Ludwig, and creating a brand new plane of existence hardly seemed more drastic than anything else he had done so far.

His castle was impenetrable.

But still imaginary, and there was the real world to suddenly deal with whether Alfred acknowledged it or not. At the same time trying so hard to blind Ludwig with cheerfulness, Alfred had to keep looking over his shoulder at the shadows creeping up behind them.

Seemed that word was getting out, and rumors had started.

Suddenly, Alfred was painfully aware of the looks he was getting in the street.

He had been so brazen, so careless, so undaunted. He had ignored Matthew and Francis so stubbornly, so foolishly, and was paying the price for it, so slowly but surely.

Alfred could only hold his head high, keep his stance ever confident, and try his best to carry on as if he hadn't ever noticed anything was wrong.

But, damn, some of the looks he got burned him, alright. Above all else, it worried the hell out of him, because he knew that Ludwig would be getting them too, soon, from his half, once they too caught wind of the rumors. Would be so much harder then to keep up his act, once Ludwig realized what was happening.

People he had known his entire life, had grown up around, had felt comfortable around, suddenly stopped in the street to stare at him. Whispers. One man he had gone to school with had passed Alfred, and when Alfred had crossed the street, he had glanced back to the see the man pointing at him, leaning down and whispering in his girl's ear. Her hand, flying up to cover her mouth.

Knew damn well what everyone was suddenly so fascinated about.

Not good.

He didn't like it when they stared at him, that went without saying, but it was tolerable, because he had always been able to just focus on what was in front of him. That alone would have been easy enough to just work his way around, but that couldn't be, because he had to worry about Ludwig now. Wouldn't let Ludwig notice, and strove ever more than before to keep Ludwig's eyes constantly on him when they walked, because he didn't want Ludwig to glance up haphazardly and see one of those looks of disgust. Wouldn't let him feel that way.

The real world came knocking at his fantasy one, and Alfred blocked it out and pretended. In his head, there was still only the two of them, and Alfred was very much the knight that would let no dragon pass.

Yeah...

Harder than he had expected it would be. Seemed to be just one thing after the other.

Now he had to worry about Ludwig's brother, too, and that was just one more ball to juggle.

Honestly, Gilbert kinda scared him.

Had more than just a few screws loose, that man. Wasn't his fault, really, nah, but it was frightening all the same, and very problematic for them when their entire objective was to keep a low profile.

But Gilbert was so violent, so aggressive, so belligerent, so volatile, so fearless, and above all else he was so insanely protective of Ludwig that it bordered on being something quite unhealthy. Alfred was a protective guy, yeah, and Ludwig had chided him more than a few times about it, but Gilbert took it so many levels beyond that he was on another planet. He didn't know if Gilbert had always been that way or if being ripped away from Ludwig like he had been had made it so, but it was a problem all the same.

When Ludwig took Gilbert out to the park, Gilbert walked beside of them like a damn guard-dog, head twisting this way and that as he observed his surroundings and everyone in his sights, and when people who may or may not have known Alfred happened to turn their eyes, however briefly or innocently, to Ludwig, Gilbert went off. Would make an aggressive motion with his hand, raise his terrifying voice, and shout at them until they skittered away.

Ludwig always grabbed Gilbert's arm and hissed at him, trying to wrangle him as it was, and Gilbert seemed very unbothered and carried on as if nothing had happened.

Not even the other Germans were safe, because Gilbert seemed as aggressive to them as he was to anyone else, and one time Ludwig had been talking to one of them, and they must have said something Gilbert had found unsatisfactory, because Gilbert had come forward and shoved the man's chest, screaming away as he always did, and run him off.

Alfred asked, but Ludwig wouldn't tell him what had made Gilbert so angry, because, really...

Maybe Ludwig just didn't _know_.

Gilbert seemed to go off sometimes at things that Alfred and Ludwig found perfectly normal and casual.

Easy to be frightened of Gilbert, easy to be exasperated with him, but harder to be angry with him, harder to hold it against him, because hell, the man had experienced something that was far beyond their ability to understand.

Couldn't be angry with Gilbert, because Gilbert had spent years upon years outside of society's rules.

It had been damn bad that first month, but after that Gilbert had seemed to pull back a little, to tone it down, and Alfred could only assume that Ludwig had laid down the law with him, so to speak, because it was clear that Gilbert struggled to keep control of his temper.

Tried hard, and sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. But it wasn't as bad as that awful first month, and Ludwig seemed to be relieved for it. It was clear that Gilbert was trying very hard, and Alfred would give him all due credit for that. Was unable to shake off that protectiveness he exuded around Ludwig in public, but it had been a good long while since he had started a confrontation.

But sometimes...

There were times yet when Gilbert still snapped, couldn't control himself, and one of those times came on a Friday evening. Alfred had almost been home when he had heard shouting.

Dread, absolute dread, because he knew Gilbert's terrifying voice a mile away.

Damn, that voice.

Skidded around the corner and onto his block, and of course there Gilbert was, a few yards away from the house, standing on the sidewalk and arms spread, chest puffed and head high, screaming for all he was worth at a man who was screaming right back at him, as Ludwig stood behind Gilbert, hands clenched in his shirt and trying to haul him back.

Impossible—Gilbert had gained a great deal of weight and strength since he had arrived, and Ludwig didn't stand a chance on a normal day, drastically less when Gilbert was riled up and pumped full of adrenaline like that. Essentially in that second Ludwig was trying to subdue an angry grizzly bear with his hands. Couldn't be done. Even Alfred would have had a massive challenge before him in that moment to drag Gilbert back merely a few paces.

Would try all the same. For Ludwig.

Alfred made a move and meant to dart forward and intervene, but was too late.

Gilbert had already lunged forward and punched the other man in the face, and a brawl quickly ensued. And, to be quite frank, Alfred wasn't really looking forward to getting dragged into it, so he instead bolted forward and grabbed Ludwig by the arm to drag him over to a safe distance.

Hated hearing Ludwig screaming at Gilbert like that, though, trying to call him off.

Alfred glanced over, grip on Ludwig inescapable, and tried to see who the hell had set Gilbert off.

Ah...

Alfred recognized him immediately as the man he had taken the gun from that day on the street, the one that had been hitting Ludwig, Felicia's brother. Lovino, his name was, if Alfred recalled correctly.

Whatever he had done or said, boy had he ever pushed Gilbert over the edge, and the way they were punching each other was actually quite brutal. Alfred couldn't help but wince from time to time, and Ludwig had long since gone hoarse and turned around, a palm over his eyes and extremely distressed.

Jesus Christ, Gilbert punched like a damn boxer, and Lovino, for having fled so quickly from Alfred that day, was doing an admirable job of actually giving Gilbert a run for his money. Maybe he wasn't all talk after all. Must not have been in the mood that day to kick Alfred's ass, because Alfred was realizing that he actually might have been able to, when he actually gave enough of a damn to lift his hand.

A cry from Gilbert, as Lovino's elbow connected with his nose, and Gilbert was stunned for just a moment, and fell back a step. An awful silence, as Gilbert and Lovino stared at each other, battered and bloody and breathing through their mouths.

Under Alfred's palm, Ludwig's shoulder was shaking as he tried very hard not to cry out of sheer frustration.

Alfred tried to figure out if it was safe to come forward and drag Gilbert away before round two could begin, and from the way Lovino was suddenly darting his dark eyes between Gilbert and Alfred, it was apparent that he was wondering if he was about to be tag teamed.

Nah—Alfred wasn't that shitty a guy.

...anymore.

And then suddenly, in the middle of that bloody impasse, Gilbert's stance completely loosened, his hands fell to his sides, his back straightened and his chin lifted, and, as blood poured from his nose down to the sidewalk, Gilbert started laughing.

Laughing.

Ludwig turned around at last, unscrewing his eyes and breathing almost as heavily as Gilbert was.

Crazy bastard, started laughing out of absolutely nowhere, and the sound of Gilbert's laugh was just as loud and brash as his voice, if not less intimidating, and Ludwig looked absolutely beyond alarmed as Gilbert burst into cackles right there in front of them. Lovino, blood running from his mouth, stared at Gilbert with what looked about as much alarm as Ludwig felt, but only for a split second, because then Lovino started laughing, too.

Alfred stood there uneasily, looking back and forth between them all and knowing that his problems were steadily mounting.

Lovino scoffed then, loudly, muttered, "You crazy son of a bitch," and then pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. As he clenched it there in his teeth and dug around for his lighter, Gilbert took a step towards him, and started muttering away in German.

Lovino lit his cigarette up, eyeing Gilbert through a squint of pain and annoyance, and Gilbert raised his hand up and gestured to Lovino. Lovino, so cooperative suddenly and looking very condescending, just sneered away at Gilbert, and yet passed him the cigarette all the same.

The next thing Alfred knew, Lovino and Gilbert were sitting side by side on the curb, passing the cigarette back and forth and chattering to each other in low tones even though they couldn't understand a damn thing the other was saying.

Holy shit.

Well. Guess that was one way to make a friend.

Ludwig stood there above them, watching the back of their heads, and was utterly slumped.

Lovino saw his shadow, looked up and back over at him, and said, to himself, "Your brother, huh? Pfft. No wonder you're such a wreck."

Gilbert glanced at Ludwig, who didn't say a word, and wiped at his nose as he giggled a little.

It was funny, it really was, and Alfred wanted to laugh about it because Gilbert and Lovino were, but Ludwig wasn't. Alfred couldn't laugh, not only because Ludwig looked so alarmed, but also because that was how _he_ felt.

Gilbert might have been just one more bump in the road, impulsive and brash and fearless as he was. Gilbert being so aggressive and volatile would make it harder to keep everything calm, to keep everything in check. Gilbert tried, but that wasn't enough sometimes. If Gilbert couldn't keep control of himself when it mattered, then Alfred was worried that Ludwig's mood would founder. Had worked so hard to make Ludwig happy, and didn't want anyone or anything ruining it, even Gilbert.

Seeing that look on his face...

Even though he was worried and uneasy, Alfred still walked up to Ludwig, let out a bark of laughter, clapped a hand on his back to jostle him, and said, "Man! Your brother is a trip, huh? He's great! I'm glad he can take care of himself. That was a good show."

Didn't feel that way at all, but just wanted Ludwig to stop looking so concerned and anxious.

Gilbert, hearing them talking, passed the cigarette back to Lovino and looked up at them through his pale lashes, eyes squinted in the sun and lit up a pink shade for the brightness, and he muttered something to Ludwig with a careless wave of his hand, blood still dripping from his nose.

Ludwig sighed heavily, looked over at Alfred, perhaps for support, and Alfred just smiled at him and jostled him again. Smile, already. That look was killing him.

A long minute, and then Ludwig scoffed, shook his head, and suddenly Ludwig sat down there next to Gilbert, and Alfred was damn glad to see that he was smiling, if only half-heartedly.

What an odd sight that was.

Alfred plopped himself down there, too, and it was surely a bizarre moment for Ludwig, the four of them sitting there on the curb, men who not so long ago were very much enemies. Lovino leaned forward sometimes, dark hair lit up in the sun and cigarette clenched in his teeth, and Alfred could see the way he was scrutinizing Ludwig. A long rake, and then his eyes turned to Alfred. A distasteful curl of Lovino's lip.

Alfred knew then that _everyone_ knew. At least the majority of them did, and it wouldn't be much longer before this community knew about it, too.

Wouldn't let Ludwig find out enough to worry about it. No matter how many damn lies he had to tell, no matter how much misleading he had to do. Didn't want Ludwig to know that they had been outed, so he didn't say a thing, and hoped to god Lovino wouldn't either.

Lovino didn't.

Just stared at them from time to time, murmuring quietly to Gilbert in Italian as Gilbert murmured back in German. They couldn't understand each other at all, but somehow seemed to like each other fine now that they had gotten done punching each other. Lovino's black eye was already forming.

Ludwig reached over, took Gilbert's head in his hands, turned him, and Alfred couldn't help but snort and smile as Ludwig was quick to lick his thumb and clean the blood from Gilbert's face exactly like a mother would.

Gilbert stared straight at Ludwig, eyes running over Ludwig's face and looking so serene for a man that had just finished brawling, and Alfred could see in his face then how much Gilbert _loved_ Ludwig. Maybe, even, Gilbert looked at Ludwig and was remembering their mother. Gilbert was so scary as a whole, and yet somehow Alfred had never seen anyone else quite that expressive. Had never seen such an instantly recognizable expression of adoration.

Odd, to see it from such a frightening man.

And yet Ludwig stared right back at Gilbert, that beautifully soft look on his face, and it could have very easily been mistaken for a mother alright, tending to her roughed up, mischievous child.

The way Gilbert and Ludwig looked at each other still sometimes took Alfred off guard. Could feel that love for Ludwig so easily, but couldn't seem to get it to show upon his face as they could, and so seeing it was yet rather extraordinary.

Ludwig tended to Gilbert fussily, Lovino kept on raking Alfred up and down with a lifted brow, and Alfred turned his eyes to the street and hoped he could keep the act up.

So many people had let Ludwig down; didn't wanna be one of them.

Gilbert suddenly whispered something that Alfred really hoped was an apology, because Ludwig sure as hell deserved one. May have been, because the crinkle in Ludwig's brow softened.

Until that point, Gilbert had been doing fairly well, more and less, and Alfred supposed that it was quite forgivable for Gilbert's loss of control to be brought on by Lovino, because Lovino seemed to have a way of bringing out the worst in everyone. If there was anyone that could have tripped Gilbert's wire, it was certainly that man. Maybe it was for the best that they got it out of their systems in a rather more private setting, and maybe even punching Lovino would get off Gilbert's edge and keep him more in control of his temper for a good while.

As with everything else, Alfred would do his best to blind Ludwig to it, and that night, as Ludwig sat so morosely at the table, Alfred dragged him over to the couch and distracted him in his favorite way. Prayed that he could be just enough to make Ludwig forgot about the dreadful day.

Maybe he was; Ludwig's hands ran up and down his back and through his hair as enthusiastically as they always did.

Up in his mind, Alfred's imaginary castle was intact, secure, and Ludwig was safe up in the tower as Alfred kept watch from below. Their walls had yet to be breached.

Couldn't last.

Shame the real world didn't bow to his whim as he felt it should have.

Two weeks after Gilbert's confrontation with Lovino, Alfred finally had his own confrontation, although it was certainly less physical and bloody. Had been a long time coming. In some way, even, Alfred was surprised it had taken as long as it had.

Had been minding his own business, as he always did nowadays with that target on his back. Had gone to his usual general store without a second thought. He couldn't really say that he actually needed anything at all, but browsing was satisfying to him nonetheless, and he picked up a few packs of aspirin in the end because damn if his head wasn't pounding every day now.

He threw the aspirin on the counter, and realized suddenly how damn quiet the store was. He lifted his eyes, and felt a surge of anxiety.

Everyone had fallen still, and they were all staring at him.

Just staring.

The owner, a man he had known for years, having frequented this place several times a week, was damn near gawking at him. A twinge of shame, pushed quickly away, because he hadn't done anything wrong.

A long, awful silence, as everyone stared at him. Alfred lifted his chin and swept his eyes over them all in turn, shoulders braced and stance aggressive, and he didn't get what the hell everyone's problem was, until the shop owner suddenly said, rather abruptly, "Go shop somewhere else, Alfred."

An awful burn of adrenaline.

Embarrassment.

His first instinct was to raise holy hell and cause a ruckus and a fight, as he would have before, but now there was someone else to think of, someone else to worry about, and so even though it killed his pride, Alfred just took a step back to the door, holding eye contact with the owner, and griped, as he exited, "Gladly. Who would shop in this shit-hole, anyway? Good riddance."

His heart hammered painfully as he stalked back out onto the street, and he found himself walking around aimlessly for a good while before he calmed down and got his head screwed back on.

Damn—felt as if his efforts to hold everything together were falling more and more apart.

There was that headache, sure enough, and no aspirin to show for it.

Oh, Ludwig.

Didn't ever want this to happen to him, although to be perfectly honest it certainly already had, many times, just for a very different reason. Still hurt to think about it, although Ludwig may not have been as bothered as Alfred was. Ludwig was used to being in the dirt; Alfred was used to being on someone else's shoulders. Feeling like that hurt.

He stalked about the streets for a good long time, because he didn't want to go home right off. Didn't want Ludwig to pick up on anything.

Pretending.

When the sun had long since set and the moon lit up the clouds, Alfred finally conceded and went home.

Home; his home now, Ludwig's tiny little place, and it was Alfred's responsibility to make certain that nothing ever went wrong beyond this door. That duty had fallen to him the very second he had asked to live here, and he wouldn't fail in that.

However hard it became.

He stood there before the door for a long while, reaffirming his confidence and faith in himself, because he had chosen this role of knight, had committed to it, and wouldn't let Ludwig see for one moment that anything had shaken him. In Ludwig's eyes, he was invincible, and for that Alfred would have taken upon the wrath of the world entire should it have given the slimmest of chances for Ludwig to pass the day without ever once losing his smile.

Anything.

With one final breath, he calmed himself, at least on the surface, steeled his will, and pushed through the door.

Just like that, one more day down, one more test complete, one more trial passed.

One day at a time, now.

Alfred's schedule wasn't always consistent, he wandered frequently, and had no set time of return, and was glad for that because Ludwig would never think to ask him why he was 'late', because he wasn't. Not really.

At this rate, the only thing that really would have given Alfred away was his constant and endless staring. He found himself always staring at Ludwig, very intently, at all times, because he was paranoid and trying to determine whether or not Ludwig was experiencing anything unpleasant. Was so scared that he would come home one day to a distraught Ludwig, after he had worked so hard to drag Ludwig out of those shadows. Didn't want them to come back.

Work was a little quieter these days. The guys didn't joke around with him as much as they used to, although they still spoke to him. Alfred may have been to blame for that one, given that he spent his entire time lost in thought and fretting.

As if all of that wasn't enough, now there was the old man.

Checking in on his father was becoming unpleasant rather than annoying, because the old man's sleep schedule was entirely erratic, no rhyme or reason, and sometimes now, no matter what time of day or night he went, Alfred would end up coming face to face with his conscious father.

That first time—oh, god.

Horrendous.

One of the most awful moments Alfred had had in recent memory, and that was because the old man had seen him there in the door, stood up, clamored over, and had hugged him in a second.

 _Hugged_ him.

Couldn't remember the last time.

He was surprisingly strong in that moment, and Alfred stood there utterly bewildered and paralyzed, unable to pry himself out of that embrace for his sheer immobility. Couldn't move, couldn't speak, and he didn't know if that was because he was so stunned by the act itself or if it was from that awful rising of what he hoped to god wasn't guilt.

That horrible feeling; didn't know what it was, but he felt so bad, so bad, and when the old man finally pulled back, he clapped Alfred's shoulder heavily and said, "There you are! 'Bout time you came home, son. Let's sit down. Are you hungry? Let's make dinner together."

Alfred stood there, dazed and dumb and silent, as his father wandered into the kitchen, and Alfred could see that he looked back very frequently to make sure that Alfred was still there, that he hadn't tried to flee again.

He had forced Francis to come have dinner for his own benefit, and that was really the reason that day that Alfred stayed put and didn't walk out. Hated that smile on his father's face when Alfred finally regained his senses and took a step into the kitchen. As always, Alfred just let his mind wander to Ludwig and used him as a means of grounding his emotions while in duress.

Didn't make it less awkward.

Sitting there over dinner like so many times past, his father chatting away and making up for lost time, and Alfred tapping his fork on his plate and uncertain about how he even felt.

If his father really loved him, had really missed him that much, Alfred couldn't help but wonder how far his father would push the threshold of his comfort for his son.

If the old man could just accept that Alfred wasn't going to go back to the way things had been before, if he could get onboard with Alfred's life going in a different direction, then maybe there was hope for them to keep in touch.

Alfred glanced up, at his smiling father, and after a hesitation asked, pointedly, "So, heard any nice rumors about me, lately?"

Wanted to know once and for all where he stood, because he was smiling and talking now and Alfred didn't know if he really even knew or not.

A silence.

His father's smile fell, his eyes lowered to his plate, and there was a long awkwardness before his father finally waved his hand and said, gruffly, "They're not true. I stopped answering the phone."

Ah. Denial, then.

Alfred had created his castle, and the old man had just stopped picking up the ringing phone. Pretending must have run in the family. A distasteful thought, and so Alfred stood up at last, placed his hands on the table, met his father's eyes, and confirmed, sternly, "Whatever you hear is true. Stop lying to yourself. It won't change anything."

With that, Alfred turned and walked out, and was a bit surprised when his father called to him from the doorway as he escaped.

When next they came face to face, the old man could figure out where to go from there. Take it or leave it. Alfred did wonder, briefly, if his father would have been less devastated if Ludwig weren't German. If Alfred falling in love with, say, Matthew would have been less horrifying to him.

But it didn't matter, any of it, because the next time Alfred swung by and his father was awake, he wasn't lucid. Was in one of those moments of what must have been dementia, because he clapped Alfred's shoulder, led him to the couch, and startled berating him for staying out so late when his grades were so low.

Hated how much that hurt, how awful that made him feel.

Really did feel like a kid again as his father lectured him about classes long since gone.

Alfred stayed that time until the old man fell asleep, and could barely pick his eyes up from the floor even later on when Ludwig was holding him up against him and kissing the back of his neck.

Had liked it better when his father had just been a loud, violent bastard that was easy to hate. Just pitiful now, whether he knew it or not, and Alfred really just wished he could have woken up one day with no father at all so he wouldn't have to keep feeling guilty.

Stress built up.

Ludwig. Gilbert. The old man. The city. The rumors. Strangers.

Everything.

Utterly and completely overwhelming.

In the meanwhile, as Alfred had to pretend to the world that his own relationship didn't even exist, it was rather unfair to notice that Matthew's uncertain relationship seemed to be blossoming quite well. Alfred wanted to be happy for him, and he _was_ , yeah, but it still stung all the same. Was jealous of Matthew, under it all, because Matthew could grab Felicia's hand whenever he felt like and walk her down the street. Matthew could kiss Felicia's cheek. Matthew could rest his hand on Felicia's back.

Not fair.

Matthew had gone from 'it's nothing serious' to quite the little Romeo, it seemed. Hadn't ever known that Matthew had that in him at all, really, but Felicia paying Matthew attention seemed to bring out the best in him. Honestly, sometimes Alfred glanced over and felt like he was looking into a mirror, because he saw quite a bit of himself there in Matthew.

Confident suddenly and very much in charge, so eager to lead Felicia around and keep a protective watch over her at all times.

Alfred was happy for him, yeah...

Just wished it was that easy for him.

All Matthew had to worry about was Lovino, while Alfred had the world shifting all around him.

Well. Couldn't blame Matthew for it, and didn't want to drag him down, so Alfred left him to his devices and stayed back, observing them from afar frequently but never really coming forward to engage with them. Watching them was nice. Could look at them and pretend. See what it would have been like for him if things had been different.

Matthew deserved to be happy, for all the grief Alfred had put him through over the years, and all Alfred could do was try to make Ludwig smile the way Matthew made Felicia.

Alfred watched them, and tried to gauge what made Felicia happiest.

Maybe...

Nah. He'd probably get punched in the face if he tried to dunk Ludwig backwards and kiss him. Ludwig probably wouldn't appreciate being twirled around like Felicia did.

...or would he?

Hard to say, but always worth a shot, at least once. It was easy enough to tell what Ludwig liked and what he didn't, even though he never said it aloud.

Anyway, even if Ludwig didn't like the weird things Alfred was coming home with, it was still good enough to have seen it once. To see that look of surprise and sometimes adoration on Ludwig's face.

Alfred spied Matthew grabbing Felicia by the waist, picking her up and twirling her around in a circle, as she squealed and grabbed Matthew around the neck, and Alfred loved the way they smiled at each other when he set her down. Cute. Alfred went straight home that night and grabbed Ludwig, but Ludwig's squeal was more of an alarmed cry, because halfway through the spin Alfred had nearly dropped Ludwig because he was a hell of a lot heavier than the last time Alfred had picked him up and for that Alfred hadn't braced correctly. Ludwig wasn't frail and so willowy anymore, and sometimes that slipped Alfred's mind.

They had had a good laugh out of it, when Ludwig's life stopped flashing before his eyes, and that was so worth it.

To know that Ludwig was happy.

And so happy.

Didn't even know that Ludwig could ever be so _happy_ , with Alfred on one side and Gilbert on the other. As if suddenly the sun had come out, for the way Ludwig shined now. It was incredible, it really was. Hadn't known it was possible at all, seeing him all those years in limbo.

It was worth the strain, the stress, the pretending. Bottling it up and keeping Ludwig in the dark was so worth it when Ludwig smiled like that.

Carried on. Couldn't doubt himself.

Alfred made his way home from work one Tuesday evening, walking far more briskly now than he ever had before, no more ambling and strutting so much as slow-jogging. Didn't want to take his time on the street anymore. It was only a matter of time, after all, before he eventually ran into his old 'friends', who had no doubt heard all the rumors and would be very eager to get a little even with Alfred for their prior spat.

Someone found him that day, but not who he expected.

He was stopped very suddenly and very randomly by someone calling his name from behind.

"Alfred! Wait. A moment!"

Oh, no—

Knew who it was, and took a good many more steps yet as he struggled with himself as to what to do. Alice. To stop and give her the time of day, or to keep on and pretend he hadn't heard her. The latter was preferable, but somehow all the same Alfred found himself slowing down, and then falling completely still.

High heels, clacking on the sidewalk behind him.

He took a deep breath for courage, steadied his shoulders and his will, and turned around to face her.

Alice, alright. As put together as always, pretty as ever, dress long and thick for the cold, and Alfred tucked his hands in his pockets as she came up to him and fell to a halt. An awkward silence. It had been a long time since he had seen her, and it was almost surreal when she was suddenly standing in front of him. What was he supposed to say?

Nothing, in the end, because he foundered and she was the one to eventually speak first.

She stared at him for a long time, biting her bottom lip, and then she began, tentatively, "I've heard... Well. That is, there's been some talk about you, Alfred."

Oh, really. Please, tell me more.

He wasn't that interested, because he already knew what she was gonna say.

Still, though, he uttered, gruffly, "Oh, yeah? I hadn't noticed."

Felt so awkward around her.

She looked around a bit, likely feeling just as awkward, and then she turned her eyes to her shoes for a second, looked up through her lashes, and asked, lowly, "Is it true? About... Well, what they're saying, about you and... _him_. Is that true?"

The embarrassment he felt then wasn't because he had been caught, wasn't because everyone knew about him and Ludwig. Embarrassed, in a way, because, despite it all, he hadn't ever really wanted to hurt her.

Well. No point in denying. No point in raising her hopes. Best to just get it over with.

So, he sighed, rolled his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said, simply, "Yeah."

A silence.

She stared at him from above that low chin, head still ducked down, and then she lowered her eyes, furrowed her brow, and appeared deep in thought. Guess she hadn't really believed it.

She was shifting, then, as she tried to form words.

"Well. So, you and him are... Well. I mean, I guess it's none of my business. I didn't think... Well, then. I suppose that's that."

Alfred lifted his chin, she lifted hers in turn, and when her brow came down and she began to look increasingly upset, Alfred did what he always did to her and just turned and walked away. He left her behind, as he often did, and tried to cast her from his mind.

Hadn't really ever wanted to hurt her like that, but she was really the very least of his concerns these days. A hurt and dejected Alice was no threat to him, was nothing at all, and there were many more concerns and hidden dangers lurking around.

Couldn't even go into a store anymore without looking over his shoulders and making sure no one was coming up behind him.

He had started shopping on new streets, much farther from home, places he had never gone, because no one knew him on that side and no one cast him a second glance. Safer for him that way, and less stressful.

It was around then, seeing how no one looked at him twice on the other side, that Alfred began to get the idea into his head to pack Ludwig up and move him somewhere else. Anywhere, really. Maybe to Queens. Maybe to Staten Island. Hell, maybe outside of the city entirely. Would be nice to get out, to get away.

Not perfectly possible at the moment, with his father the way he was, and so Alfred just mulled it over at night as he stared at the ceiling and Ludwig slept away beside of him.

Tempting.

Very tempting, because the next day Alfred was walking home when he glanced over to see a squad car rolling up slowly next to him. Officers he recognized by face alone, because they had always been a couple of the ones chiding them as Alfred and his 'friends' had been harassing the immigrants. The ones who chided only because it was their job but never made a move to intervene because they just didn't care about a few Japs or Nazis. This time, though, they gave Alfred a good long look over, casually moving along with him as he stared back at them, and he wondered if he was about to be arrested, for some made up reason or another.

The problem with rumors about Alfred, after all, was the previous bit of power Alfred had had in these parts, and for that he fell harder. Alfred was well-known, and that was his downfall now. Had come from a powerful circle of war heroes, in both father and friends, and this new shift was easily attracting far too much attention.

The patrol car stalked him along the quiet neighborhood street for a while, before one of the officers finally asked, "What are you up to, boy?"

"Going home," Alfred grumbled, hands in his pockets and staring straight ahead. "That illegal now, sir?"

A snort.

"Nah. What you do inside of it might be, though."

Would have told them to kiss his ass and maybe flipped them off, but the urge to be defiant died down at the thought of Francis having to come try to bail him out of the Tombs.

Alfred just kept his head up and walked on, and finally said, when the irritation was too high, "Come find me when you got somethin' on me, then."

They laughed a little, and it was probably only because they might have yet liked Alfred a bit that they didn't use his smart mouth as cause to pull over and hassle him over something or another.

Eventually, they lost interest and pulled away.

Didn't go back home until the car was long out of sight, just because he didn't want them knowing so easily which door was his. They wouldn't bother him at home, anyway, because they couldn't. Street harassment was fine, but they still had rules to abide by, and couldn't come knocking at his door without cause.

He tried to ignore them and forget about them.

Harder to ignore certain other people.

Three days after Alfred had confessed to Alice, she found him again.

Alfred once more heard her calling his name from behind, and that time he stopped, with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, if only because he was actually dumbfounded that she was even speaking to him at all now that she knew about him.

What more could she possibly want?

He twisted around as she came up to him, and this time her head was as high as it had always been, no more of that awkward shuffling, and she met his eyes evenly.

He waited, silently, and it didn't take her too long to speak up.

"Alfred, I wanted to speak to you. I talked to my father about you."

Alfred snorted, gave a half roll of his eyes, and wondered where the hell this was even going to go. Hated thinking about how that conversation had even gone, how in the world Alice had ever even said it. Ah, hell, as bold as she was she had probably just gone straight home and said, 'Daddy! Alfred is in love with another man! What do I do now?'

A shame, though, because her father might have been a person Alfred would have rather kept in the dark only to have him somewhat on Alfred's side, because that man had a good bit of clout, had a good reputation, and would have served Alfred well if it had come down to it, especially with the cops.

Gone, now, as much as everything else.

When Alfred offered no words, Alice carried on, "He told me that there was just something wrong with you. That I should just stay away from you and leave you alone, for now. He said he would talk to your father about it."

A sting, a pang of hurt, but Alfred rolled back his shoulders all the same, looked around, and finally asked, a bit mockingly perhaps, "So then why are you here?"

The obvious answer was that Alice just did the opposite of whatever her father told her to do for the most part.

Wondered, even, if maybe Alice clung to some odd hope that her father could somehow convince Alfred's old man to convince Alfred to change his mind.

Bizarre.

She didn't back down from him, because she never had, and kept her eyes locked onto his as she hesitated, and then said, in a much softer voice that Alfred almost didn't recognize, "Because I... I like you, and I know what it feels like to have everyone think that there's something wrong with you. Everyone's always thought that I'm crazy. I know, even if they never say it to my face. You, too. I know."

Alfred averted his eyes from her, squirming a little as that unexpected rush of embarrassment came up. Maybe a little guilt.

Yeah, he sure had always thought she was loopy. The whole school had, and now that they were grown the whole city did, too.

It was nice to hear her empathize, sure, but it wasn't nearly the same. Alice's craziness was a great topic of gossip, but it was harmless. Just something fun to chat about, because people still liked and respected Alice and no one would have ever thought to treat her differently just because she read strange books in the library. Her 'oddity' and Alfred's 'oddity' were incomparable, and she didn't really understand, although he appreciated the effort.

What she said next though...

That really threw him.

She trailed off, as if steadying something inside of her, and then, with a great inhale, she lifted her head, straightened her shoulders, braced her feet, and said, somewhat firmly, "If you ever need to...talk, or anything, I'm always around. I don't... Ah. I don't care what they've been saying, Alfred, I really don't. I like you, I always did. And I wouldn't— Well, I don't think there's anything wrong with you. Whatever _they_ say. If you ever need help, I'll be around. I can still talk daddy into anything, you know."

And, well.

He hadn't expected that. It took him off guard, completely by surprise, and more than anything else, it made him feel _uncomfortable_.

Uncomfortable because, in a way, he felt suddenly guilty.

...hell.

All that time treating her the way he had, and she was the first person to come up to him, after all the rumors, and offer him a little support. Whether she meant it or not didn't matter, as much as it didn't with Francis. She very well could have been put off, but her politeness would never allow her to say so outright. It didn't matter if she just wanted to stay on his good side, to remain in his sights and in a favorable position should something happen and she found herself once more in the running. None of that mattered at all.

What mattered was that she tried, regardless of sincerity, and Alfred felt bad about it.

Actually, he felt pretty shitty.

She hadn't had to come back. She had gotten the truth from him, and they had parted ways. She hadn't been obligated to come back to him and say that, but she had, and that meant more to him than he could ever really hope to express.

He stood there for a long time, ever slouching, and then he heard himself say, in a whisper, "Thank you."

Had to be her, of all people.

To be fair, maybe it would take the craziest woman in the city to ever actually think that maybe Alfred wasn't so weird after all.

She stared at him, face so serious and looking a little down for it all, and all Alfred could think to do was to say, a bit more forcefully, "Thanks. Really."

Alice nodded her head, gave him one more long study, and then she suddenly turned on her heel and walked away. The first time Alfred could ever recall that she had walked away from him of her own volition.

He started walking, too.

She walked away from him.

...why did that bother him so much suddenly?

At the last second, he stopped in his tracks, turned around, and called to her back, "Hey! Wait. Alice."

She stopped, looked back, and she was _smiling_ , as she always had before. He was kinda happy, though he wouldn't admit it.

"Yes?"

Alfred smiled too when he said, with his hands in pockets, "Say! Why don't you come walk with us today?"

She nodded her head, her smile much brighter, and Alfred was glad. Strange, to want to see her happy like that when he had run away from her relentlessly for years. Maybe his father had been the one to cause his aversion to her, as much as it had Ludwig.

He started walking again, she fell into step beside of him, and it was the first time that Alfred had walked beside of her and not ahead of her, the first time he looked over at her and chatted with her as they ambled. The first time he hadn't wanted to get away from her. The first time he had felt a little twitch of affection for her.

And he wasn't blind to the fact that when he walked with Alice, no one sent Alfred a second glance. No dirty looks. No grimaces of disgust.

Best not to mull it over, and Alice's cheerful look was pleasant enough to distract him.

She wasn't so bad.

* * *

She wasn't so _bad_?

Is that what Alfred had just said to him? Must have misheard!

One of the most awkward moments Ludwig had recently had, for sure, almost as bad as when Alfred had brought his uncle over. To look up from the couch and smile as Alfred came through the door, only to freeze up like a deer when he saw that girl behind him.

Oh—!

Had been immediately uncomfortable, irritated, annoyed and nervous, but Ludwig politely stood up and came forward all the same, although Alfred didn't bring her through the threshold and instead slapped Ludwig's arm, saying, eagerly, "Let's go for a walk."

Wasn't asking, and therefore Ludwig knew he didn't have a choice, and with Alice back there waiting expectantly and popping on her toes to gawk at him over Alfred's shoulder, Ludwig merely grabbed his coat and exhaled heavily.

Oh, boy, would Alfred ever owe him for this one. What in the world had gotten into him? Ludwig had been under the impression that Alfred had done everything in his power to avoid and escape her, so he couldn't understand now why Alfred had so brazenly brought her to their home.

Ludwig sent Alfred his dirtiest look as he stepped out into the cool air, and that was when Alfred had leaned in, pressed his lips into Ludwig's ear, and whispered, "She's not so bad. Let's just have a good time. She'll like it."

Ludwig turned his head and stared at Alfred as if he had crawled up from hell.

Astounded and flabbergasted.

Alfred seemed content enough, bold and brazen and bolstered as always, and was quick to fall into the middle of Ludwig and Alice, leading them along like the buck he was. Ludwig's glares didn't faze Alfred at all, and as they made their way towards the center, Alfred was so exuberant and excited that he threw his arms out and rested one on either of their shoulders.

Alice looked enthralled, and Ludwig squirmed.

Maybe Alfred did it because he couldn't do it when it was just him and Ludwig, and having a woman there with them gave Alfred an opportunity to touch Ludwig in public without incurring unwanted attention.

...he wasn't jealous. Absolutely not. Wasn't at all jealous by how happy Alice looked to be under Alfred's arm.

He wasn't jealous. Really. It was just a new experience was all, and this woman was a stranger that hadn't exactly ever been particularly pleasant with him on occasions prior. He found himself quite uncomfortable around her, but not because he was worried about her somehow charming Alfred. Wasn't like that.

Mildly unpleasant.

He knew that this woman was in love with the same man he was in love with, and therefore feeling a bit of unease was natural. More so now that Alfred truly was his. Hadn't been any of the other times they had met, and it was different now. Alfred must have told her about them, surely, couldn't imagine that she just didn't know. That was almost worse, because walking with her now, he could stand there and think that perhaps she would like him even less for having stolen Alfred away from her.

Hadn't wanted to steal anyone from anyone, hadn't wanted to cause her any undue duress, but Alfred was his, and that was that.

She seemed a bit less sharp than before, though, so that was something Ludwig could be grateful for. Didn't really seem malicious. Never really had, come to think. Just the way she was, he supposed. Not her fault. She probably didn't intend to come off as snooty and unpleasant as she did, as much as Ludwig hadn't ever really meant to come off as cold and unfriendly.

Anyway, Alfred said she wasn't so bad, so Ludwig could only take his word for it. So Ludwig just stood there at Alfred's side and suffered her, because she hadn't ever done anything to him and she wasn't bothering him.

Much.

As they walked, Ludwig noticed that Alice kept glancing over at them, when she thought they weren't looking, and he was a bit surprised, actually, because it wasn't what he had expected. The way she was looking at him then wasn't anything like she had before. She had looked at him before as if he were a bug, and yet now suddenly she couldn't seem to stop staring at him, and her look was much less intense. Seemed curious, almost, as if she were seeing the moon for the first time.

Sometimes, Ludwig thought that maybe he had seen her smile.

…how was she still so creepy?

Alfred, elated and clearly happy for whatever reason, suddenly said, "Let's go see a show, shall we?"

Instantly, Alice replied, "That sounds lovely."

Alfred turned to look at him, and from his high brow and lidded eyes, Alfred was very fully aware that he was pushing Ludwig to the limits and was enjoying himself for it.

With yet another failed glare, Ludwig just made a noncommittal grunt that was a nonverbal concession. Couldn't really refuse after Alice had already accepted. Would be so rude.

Alfred looked smug and content, and began making his way to the theater. It was a Friday evening, though, and the theater was a very popular destination. They weren't the only ones making their way there, and that was, in the end, why they didn't make it at all.

They were distracted by the sound of screaming, of a brawl, and Alfred's arms came flying off of Ludwig and Alice as he went into that 'hero' mode he had in a blink. The one that could so easily cause trouble but was far too charming to hate. Ludwig would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't recognized the loudest of the voices and knew exactly who it was and what was happening.

Of course he was right, and when they went a few blocks down Ludwig saw there across the street exactly what he had expected.

Luna Lovi, of course, raising hell, but this time his wrath was directed at a hapless Matthew, who had no doubt been trying to take Felicia on a nice night to the theater, too. Could see her there, struggling to get in between Matthew and Lovino as Matthew kept trying to shove her back behind him and she kept trying to shove him back behind her.

Ludwig did roll his eyes that time, but Alfred jerked forward suddenly, no doubt at seeing some lunatic screaming like that at his best friend. Alfred stopped short, though, because by now Alfred knew just about as well as everyone else that Luna Lovi was all talk. Had seen Luna Lovi cause hell without causing harm too many times, and eventually Alfred's posture slumped and he just shook his head with a grimace. Only Gilbert had ever gotten Lovino to actually use his fists, and passive Matthew wouldn't evoke such rage.

Matthew probably didn't know that Luna Lovi was all hot air, because he looked pretty terrified, and Ludwig caught Alfred's eye and jerked his head, murmuring, "Your turn."

"My turn?" Alfred griped. "I took the gun last time. It's your turn."

"Gilbert counts as my turn. And even if he didn't! You would really make _me_? I thought _you_ were the man of the house..."

Ludwig only said that because he was cranky that Alfred had forced him on a walk with Alice, but it certainly played well to Alfred's ego.

Alfred opened his mouth, sputtered something incomprehensible, rolled his eyes, and took a step forward.

Because that was true, after all.

Alfred was intending to intervene, but not before Luna Lovi suddenly got to scare the living daylights out of poor, poor Matthew.

"Didn't I tell ya to stay away from her? I told you already!"

Lovino's wide chest puffed out aggressively, dark hair poking out from his unbuttoned collar, and he thrust his hand under his open coat and into his belt, pulling out his gun as easily as someone else pulled out a handkerchief. Ludwig had nearly rolled his eyes again; they were going to get stuck at this rate. Looked like Lovino had found another pistol. How many guns did people have to take from this man? What a whacko.

Matthew went pale as a sheet and tried very hard to drag Felicia out of sight, but Luna Lovi's cheeks were already red with anger, and he took a step forward.

Alfred took another step, too, and was on his way.

Not quick enough, though, because someone else beat him to the punch. Alfred's girl, that snooty little Alice, suddenly rushed forward, and for one crazy, delirious moment, Ludwig thought that she was going to thrust herself into the line of fire to protect someone else. Impulsively, Alfred had reached out to snatch her arm, but wasn't quick enough, and she had darted across the street before he could stop her, dodging traffic like an expert with her dress held up.

What a woman.

Alfred cursed and rushed after her, Ludwig after him, and how all three of them had made it to the other side of the street without ending up under a taxi was a minor miracle that Ludwig could never explain.

Dumb luck.

But instead of defending Matthew, Alice went up to Luna Lovi without fear, her gloved hands gathering up the end of her dress, and she said to him, somewhat breathlessly, "Oh, my! What's all this?"

She looked back and forth between Matthew and Lovino, but it was very clear that the situation itself didn't hold her interest as much as Lovino did.

Lovino, eyes wide and brow very low, opened his mouth, and did something incredible.

He lost his voice.

Well, that was a first. That bastard had always had _something_ to say.

Alfred came up, intending to grab Alice and drag her back, but once more he fell still and hesitated, because Lovino's eyes were entirely on Alice then and for just a moment he looked as if he had forgotten Matthew existed.

A moment of scrutiny, thinking, and then Alfred took a step back and decided to watch the show.

Alice looked Luna Lovi up and down, her critical eyes very bright, and she leaned forward when she spoke again, and her voice was strangely husky as she asked, "Who are you? How do you know Matthew? Do you always carry a gun with you? Are you dangerous, or something?"

Ludwig and Alfred shared a furtive look, and Alfred shifted his weight, tilted his head, and then placed his hands in his pockets.

And just like that, the situation was diffused.

Matthew tried to slink off, but was held in place by Felicia.

Ludwig, knowing Matthew would get over it with Felicia's coddling, followed Alfred's lead and contented himself to watching free entertainment.

Before them, Alice was still staring at Lovino, who suddenly came back to himself with a clearing of his throat, as he tucked his gun away and crossed his arms instead over his chest, trying to look tough as always.

His loud, rough voice was a little higher than usual when he said, "Oh, yeah! I always carry a gun, you know, since I'm such a big guy around here, I have to keep myself safe. And you know, if someone pisses me off, then I can pull it out and shoot them right there. That's how it goes around here."

Ludwig nearly cringed.

What a jerk.

Far from being appalled, Alice dropped her dress, straightened up to her full height, and began to smooth out the ruffles of the fabric, a strange smile on her face. She was very pretty then, Ludwig could say, pale hair glinting in the city lights and her cardigan matching her green eyes so well. She was just a little bit taller than Lovino, and her instilled grace made her quite a contrast to rough, dark, stocky Lovino.

Alfred was almost sneering, and Matthew had tried very hard to creep closer and closer to Alfred without catching Lovino's eye. Didn't need to be stealthy, really, because Lovino seemed absolutely entranced by Alice.

Ludwig wondered what it was about _her_ , because he had seen girls chasing Lovino rather frequently. Had never lacked attention. It wasn't as if this was the first time a pretty girl was talking to Lovino. Perhaps it was because she wasn't Italian and for that she was interesting, and vice versa. Or maybe it was just because most normal girls weren't attracted to crazy men with guns.

She was far from normal.

Lovino's chest was so puffed now that Ludwig wondered how much longer it would take for him to just pop.

Alice bit her bottom lip excitedly, and said, "Is that so! Oh my. Have you—have you really shot someone?"

Lovino, his face red now from something other than anger, sputtered, "O-oh, yeah! Yeah, I've shot lots of people!"

Alice lifted her hand up to her mouth to hide her smile, and Felicia took a great bound forward, and slapped Lovino as hard as she could across the back of his head, crying, "Don't you lie! You've never shot _anyone_!"

Lovino whipped around, shrieking in Italian, and as he and Felicia argued loudly, Alice just smoothed her dress, and watched them with a lifted brow. Her smile stood strong.

Finally, Lovino whirled back around, and said, defensively, "Well, that's only because everyone knows better than to mess with me! But if—if I _had_ to, I'd shoot someone. Obviously."

"I'm sure," was Alice's breathless reply.

Matthew and Alfred were close enough then to converse, whispering lowly, and after a short pause Matthew and Felicia quietly slunk into the theater for their date night as they had intended from the start. Lovino was far too distracted by then to notice or care, as Alice smiled away at him.

Then Alice looked down suddenly at her shoes, and seemed absolutely mortified when she realized that, in her zealousness to introduce herself, she had stepped straight into a puddle.

A short, horrified, "Oh—!"

Luna Lovi followed her gaze for whatever reason, jumped a little, and was quick to bound forward and extend his arm, that flush of red still on his face. Alice beamed, quite pleased, and took the offered arm and allowed Lovino to walk her out of the puddle and to a cleaner patch. She didn't let him go after, though.

Ludwig was pretty sure that his mouth had dropped open a little.

Who knew that there was actually a gentleman somewhere behind that big, fat mouth. Helping girls over puddles. Huh. Astounding.

From the way Lovino looked now, Alice probably could have wiped her shoes off on him and he wouldn't have said a word. She didn't, not this time, and instead rubbed the bottoms of her shoes on the concrete to dry them.

Lovino watched her the whole time, silent and still, and seemed fascinated by every move she made. God help him, Ludwig hated thinking it, because Lovino had made his life hell for years, but he was actually kinda charming in that moment. Seeing him like that was rather endearing. Almost wanted to be happy for him, even.

Almost.

When her shoes were as good as they were getting, Alice smiled over at Lovino, and spoke.

"You're Italian, aren't you?" she asked, as she clung tightly to Lovino's arm. "I can tell!" Her eyes drifted down to Lovino's chest, observing the thick, dark hair coating it, and then flitted back up. "My father always told me to be careful around Italians because some of you could be dangerous. Well! He was right, wasn't he?"

Whatever Alice's father had told her didn't seem to matter much, because it was clear by now that she had no interest in letting go of Lovino. From what Ludwig could gather of her, it might have been better if her father had told her instead to marry an Italian, because she probably would have done the opposite.

Alfred threw his head back, covered his face with his palms, and heaved a deep, beleaguered sigh, muttering muffled beneath his hands. As if he couldn't even be bothered to believe what he was seeing.

Ludwig, on his end, was having an absolute blast. Most entertaining thing he had ever seen in his life, truly was. Seeing Lovino getting led around like a dazed house pet was highly amusing.

Alice looked back at Alfred then, flashed him a blinding smile, and said, "Enjoy the theater, Alfred! I'm going to continue my walk."

Alfred opened his mouth, came up with nothing, and hung his head in exasperation when they started walking off.

Alice let Luna Lovi lead her off to who knew where, and the whole while they walked away, Ludwig could see that Lovino might have been in front, but it was really Alice who was leading. Didn't surprise him much. As much as Felicia could bully when she wanted to, it seemed Luna Lovi was susceptible to bullying himself. All talk. A good match, perhaps, a bag of hot air and a bossy woman.

Lovino didn't really even seem to know who or where he was in that second, led off to doom then by a man-eater. Had been nice knowing him.

Not.

Alfred spoke up, and said, simply, "I liked the other guy better."

He spoke for himself; Ludwig would take the entranced Lovino over the gun-waving one any day.

Everyone else wandered off eventually, the spectators carried on, and Ludwig and Alfred stood forlorn on the sidewalk, absorbing the past few minutes in their own time, and everything was quiet. Matthew and Felicia were inside, and Alfred looked at the theater for a moment, as if contemplating following. That had been the plan, after all, but it was different now without Alice.

She, like with Alfred's hands on approach, had been the reason for the trip to the theater. Without her, it was just them again, and too risky perhaps when they were both rather well-known faces these days.

In the end, Alfred seemed to begrudgingly decide against going into the theater after all, and turned his eyes instead to the puddle in which Alice had stood, hands in his pockets and head tilted curiously.

After a minute or so, he looked up, caught Ludwig's eye, and opened his mouth.

Ludwig didn't give him the chance, and blurted, quickly, "Don't even."

The stupid grin that spread over Alfred's face gave away exactly what he had wanted to do, and Ludwig was quick to tromp through the puddle intentionally as he set off for home.

Alfred trotted behind him, and called, "I was just gonna help you over it, was all!"

Ludwig's pride decided that that one had earned no response. Sure was bold of Alfred to want to walk him across a puddle in plain sight but not go into a theater. That man had the strangest priorities. Couldn't figure him out at all.

As Alfred struggled to keep up with Ludwig's furious pace, Ludwig could hear him laughing to himself from time to time. Didn't even want to know about what. Hoped that it was over Lovino, and not Alfred's mental image of walking Ludwig over a puddle.

Because Ludwig could be as silly as Alfred in certain moods, he reached the house first, ran inside, and locked Alfred out for a good five minutes, just to make his point known. Didn't work much. Alfred still held out his arm as soon as Ludwig relented and opened the door, and said, in a poor imitation of Alice's accent, "Shall I walk you across, good sir?"

Alfred slept on the couch that night.

At least at first. Ludwig couldn't say he was too happy with a cold bed, and pride wasn't quite worth being without Alfred for even a minute. Sometime in the middle of the night, Ludwig had slunk down the stairs, lifted the blanket that covered sleeping Alfred, and crawled underneath, resting himself atop of the sleeping troublemaker and burrowing his face into the warmth of Alfred's neck.

An inhale, as Alfred stirred. Warm arms around his back, a face buried in his hair, and when Alfred gave a sleepy snort and rasped, "I knew ya couldn't stay away from me," Ludwig just smothered a smile in Alfred's neck and settled in for sleep.

Nope. Sure couldn't. Just wouldn't ever admit it.

Everything carried on from there, and not just inside their little household. Outside, the world spun on, and Ludwig watched others spinning with it.

The next time Ludwig saw Luna Lovi, he had combed back his messy hair, trimmed his sideburns, changed his cologne, and shaved.

The next time Ludwig saw Matthew, he had gotten a haircut, hadn't trimmed his sideburns, had changed his glasses, had started using cologne, and had shaved, but not all the way.

The next time Ludwig saw Alice, she had put on pearls and put her hair up, and changed her pale dresses for ones that were just a little brighter.

The next time Ludwig saw Felicia, she... Well. She looked the same, come to think, just with a little more brightness in her smile and maybe a little lipstick.

Gilbert was bright, that crooked smile Ludwig had always loved so frequently on his face.

Antonio was calm, relaxed, and ever cheerful. No more shadows.

Everything seemed perfect. Wonderful. The world that he had once hated had turned upside down and was suddenly his favorite thing.

Ludwig was back in that moment in time where he had been his happiest, in that home with that family that loved him with Gilbert there at his side. Felt as wonderful these days as he had then. His happiest time, and it was remarkable that he had found it here in this city.

Happy.

This time, though, Alfred was here to keep those shadows from growing. There was no war looming. Gilbert had kept his promise. He had created a home here, and once more he felt secure and loved and wanted. Alfred stood by him on one side, and Gilbert on the other. Felicia and Antonio kept watch from behind and in front. He was on firm ground. He and Alfred were together, everything was theirs, the world seemed to be theirs, and Ludwig felt himself in a constant state of sunrise. Dawn all around, bringing with it hope and light and new opportunities.

Alfred's smile.

The world seemed so beautiful.

Even if sometimes Alfred seemed to look over his shoulder.


	22. The Last Waltz

**Chapter 22**

**The Last Waltz**

There were times when Alfred felt as if he were taking advantage of Ludwig in some way.

Felt like a necessity, really, one that could have consequences were something to fall apart, but what else could he do? Didn't want Ludwig to know about anything unpleasant, didn't want Ludwig to worry, to fret, because god knew Ludwig had already done enough of that. So what could he do?

Alfred stood there and pretended, lied sometimes even, and used Ludwig's blind trust and good-nature and naivety to his advantage.

Alfred couldn't tell Ludwig that they couldn't go on their usual route to the park now because Alfred had crossed paths with a shop owner who had very loudly and very aggressively told Alfred that he was no longer allowed to walk on that street at all. Alfred had had a good bit to say about that, because who the hell was _that_ guy, anyway? Wasn't like Alfred was going inside his shop. Did he own the whole damn boulevard?

But during the shouting match, Alfred had glanced around to see that a few guys had walked behind the shop owner to keep an eye on him, he realized the precarious situation he was in, and had had no choice but to concede yet again and stalk off.

Tell Ludwig? Hell no.

He took Ludwig on a different route, and when Ludwig asked about it, Alfred just lied and said that he was sick of that damn street and wanted to see something new, even if it took a few extra minutes.

Ludwig, as always, believed him without question.

Hated lying to him, hated deceiving him, but the other option was simply one Alfred wouldn't suffer. If Ludwig ever found out and hated him for keeping him in the dark, Alfred would only take it for what it was.

After two weeks, though, something in Alfred just dimmed a bit and he didn't ask Ludwig to go walking at all. Realized that going on that weekly walk was counterproductive to his pretending, when something could so easily go wrong. Ludwig seemed to wait and wait for Alfred to say something, but Alfred never asked, and neither did Ludwig.

Just a wonderful pastime that had to be let go of.

Ludwig still smiled.

For now, Alfred clung to Ludwig's happiness, his brightness, and used it as a torch when things were bad on the outside. Ludwig's light was enough for now to keep those shadows at bay.

One rather normal Wednesday morning, Alfred found himself beneath the undercarriage of a car, as he always was, covered in oil and grease, and he had almost yelped in alarm when a boot caught the edge of the creeper and he was abruptly slid out from under the vehicle and into the open. The constriction of his pupils in the light, the split-second of being unable to see and for that so vulnerable.

Panic had become his first reaction these days. Always waiting to be jumped as he was, always on edge and ready to defend himself.

No one was above him with a crow bar, though, so that was a relief. Just his boss.

Adrenaline was making him dizzy.

He stared up with wide eyes at his boss, who snorted a little at the look on his face, and then he jerked his head to the side, walking off as randomly as he had come and clearly meaning for Alfred to follow.

Aw, man—last thing he needed.

He hauled himself upright and trudged along morosely towards the office, and when he was inside, the door was promptly shut behind him and his boss was staring him down.

Alfred cracked, and lowered his eyes.

A question.

"Alfred, how long have you worked for me now?"

Shifting his weight anxiously, Alfred replied, quickly, "Since it was legal for me to do so without gettin' ya fined?"

A bark of laughter.

"That's right!"

Alfred kept his eyes on the floor, and dreaded what was coming. Didn't take long.

"So, Alfred. The guys are talkin'. Sayin' they keep hearing all these rumors about you. Now, you know I have to ask, as your employer. Just think about it for a second, and then answer me. Are these rumors I hear true?"

Coulda passed out then, from how fast his heart was racing.

Dammit—

Losing this job would set him back so far, both financially and emotionally and potentially in his new relationship. The horrible shame of ever having to go back to an already struggling Ludwig and tell him that he had lost his job, that he was no longer able to play that role of head of the household he had so eagerly and abruptly claimed.

Didn't seem like there was much use in lying, because from the look on his boss' face he already knew the answer and was just fulfilling his duty to ask.

Wouldn't lie, because there was no point.

Finally, Alfred gathered up every bit of courage he had, every last shred, lifted his chin and braced himself, and said, bravely, "Yeah."

Immediately, his boss retorted, "Wrong answer! Try again."

Alfred's brow came down, his lips pursed, and suddenly his bracing was from aggression, as irritation rose up and so did anger, because he didn't know what was going on but knew he was damn frustrated.

His boss must have known that Alfred was a breath away from throwing a wrench at his head, because he clarified, "You know damn well I can't keep you on knowing about you. You tell me 'yes' and I gotta let you go, for appearance's sake. But if you lie to me, I can't help that, now, can I? What do I know? I'm just a nice guy that took your word on it. So. Let's try again. Alfred, are these rumors I hear about you true?"

Oh—

Not fair.

Knew that he was being given a lifeline, knew that he was being extended a helping hand, and so he didn't know why it stung so damn much, to be forced to either lose his job or lose a bit of himself. To keep his employment and pretend that Ludwig didn't exist. To deny what he had built up, because it wasn't what it should be.

What could he do?

He hung his head, slumped, and felt so damn defeated suddenly that he must have looked pitiful. Must have looked so pathetic, dejected, because in some way he felt so _stupid_ then.

Could never have explained why, and so Alfred finally cast aside his pride yet again and mumbled, lowly, "No. Don't know where they came from."

A movement, a sound, and then a hand clapped on his shoulder.

"Good to know. I didn't believe it anyhow. Get back to work, kid. Just keep your head down and don't cause trouble out there."

Was that supposed to encourage him?

Made him feel worse.

Alfred wandered off back to his spot, and when he slid back under the car, he just stared up at the carriage above him and felt a horrible sting of his eyes. The blurring of his vision. Bit it back, pushed it down, cast it aside. Hadn't broken yet, hadn't, and wouldn't start now.

Wouldn't cry. Couldn't.

He eventually brought his hands back up and set to work, as the painful realization sank in that Alfred may have been the king of his castle, but was merely a slave to the whims of others outside that door. Had no power anymore, no control. He was reliant entirely upon the graces of those around him, depended on the moods and morals of strangers. Had gone from owning the city to falling victim to it. Having his life decided by how much any given person may or may not have liked him.

Realizing that he no longer controlled the direction of his fate.

Didn't cry that day, no matter how badly he wanted to, and went home one more day victorious.

Had only lost another shard of his pride, but Ludwig was worth the price.

Ludwig smiled at him from across the table, teasing him and reaching out to push his glasses back up his nose, and Alfred wondered if maybe he was just a little too quiet that night. Played it off as being tired, and Ludwig, as always, just believed him, and coddled him as usual before shoving him off to bed, playing mother once more.

Couldn't sleep that night, staring up at the ceiling, and wondered if he was really even Alfred anymore.

Who was he?

Hard to say. Felt as if so much of who he had once been had been stripped away. No one knew him anymore, and maybe that was because he didn't even know himself. Once more, the circumstances around him made him doubt himself, shook his confidence, knocked him off balance.

Sometimes, he didn't recognize himself anymore.

But then Ludwig came quietly in and crawled into bed, resting his head on Alfred's shoulder, and he remembered. Confidence returned. Doubt vanished. His feet were steady. When Ludwig was there, Alfred was just a man in love, and who he was to anyone else didn't matter. Didn't matter what his name was, who he had once been, how much he had changed.

Ludwig loved him.

Alfred just clenched Ludwig up and found his nerve, because he wasn't alone.

The wind grew colder and stronger as November came rolling in.

The first snowfall of the year came shortly after, rather later than it usually did.

Alfred had watched it coming down from inside the shop, and was looking forward for once to a pileup, because he fully intended to drag Ludwig outside and try to have some fun with him. Land a snowball in his face or something. Try to get him to play around a little, to keep him in that wonderful high he was in. Would recruit Gilbert, too, and take Ludwig back to some place long gone from childhood.

Didn't get the chance.

It didn't snow enough for that to take place that day, but even if it had it wouldn't have mattered at all, because there was a very unpleasant surprise waiting for him.

It was Alfred's day to leave early, at lunch, and he tromped off home through the sludge, squinting up at the sky as his glasses fogged up and the grey sky made the city seem so dreary. Wondered what Gilbert was up to, these days. The snow had made Alfred think of him, although he couldn't say if it was because Gilbert was so pale or from Gilbert's time in Siberia.

Wondered how cold it got there. What it was like in that kind of environment. Alfred could barely even handle this cold, and it couldn't have been nearly as extreme.

His mind kept on wandering as he walked, and he only snapped out of it when he reached his door and glanced up.

Fell still, in absolute shock. Black caught his eye, so dark and ominous against the grey and white.

His door was black, and Alfred was stunned.

The door had been completely vandalized, covered in spray paint, and Alfred felt that awful squirm of nausea, the rise of heat brought on by adrenaline, mortification, anger.

Wrath.

The old feel of a can of spray-paint in his own hand, in this very neighborhood. This time, though, instead of the great swastika Alfred had once painted, there was a word, in bold, capital letters, covering the door from top to bottom. Black paint, running down from the thick letters in dried rivers.

Just a word.

Hurt him more than it should have been possible for it to.

**FAGGOT.**

Stupid. Shouldn't have bothered him, maybe, because he had held himself up so well these past months, had dealt with the looks and the harassment and being shunned. Shouldn't all of that have hurt so much worse than some stupid word? Should have.

But it didn't.

And at the bottom of the door, in the corner, perhaps as a bonus, there was a little swastika after all. As if it had been an afterthought. So glad they had remembered that little detail. Really tied it all together, sure did, two things that couldn't be farther apart, and Alfred stood there for long, awful minutes, just staring away at his door. When he regained mobility, it was to turn his head left and right and look over the other houses. No movement, no one peering at him from their windows that he could see. Had anyone seen it happen? Had anyone tried to stop it?

He turned around then, and cast his eyes to the door of the old widow.

He had scrubbed her door clean; hadn't she at least opened up to berate the perpetrator? Hadn't she offered a word, something? Anything? Had she just watched through her blinds as she always had, as she had that night Alfred and Ludwig had worked so hard to rid her door of paint?

It struck Alfred hard then that _no_ , she wouldn't have. Had she seen it happening, she wouldn't have said a thing. Why would she? Sometimes, he forgot that it must have been painful and outrageous to her, having to suddenly live across the street from the son of the man that had killed her husband.

They were alone; no one stood beside them except for their exceptionally rare friends.

Alfred turned back to the door, and it was as if he had been struck by lightning, that awful jolt of horror. He reached down, pulled up his sleeve, checked his watch, and then he turned on his heel and bolted off. He ran so quickly and so furiously that he slipped in the slush and slammed down hard onto his knee on the sidewalk. Picked himself up without hesitation, carried on his mad dash against the pain, skidding here and there into the streets and looking for the nearest home shop.

Didn't have too much time—

He found what he was looking for after a while, frantically bought a canister of white paint, a brush, and scrambled back home as quick as he could.

Wouldn't let Ludwig see, wouldn't, woulda died first before he ever let Ludwig see that. Had a couple of hours to cover it up before Ludwig got off, and Alfred had never considered himself so fortunate to be the first one home. What a damn bit of luck!

He tumbled home, panting and gasping, knee on fire, went straight to the door, popped the lid off the can, and started painting. Would take a good few coats to cover up that thick black paint, and Alfred impatiently waited after every layer for it to dry a bit so he could add the next. As he waited, he checked his watch and tapped his foot, looking over his shoulder every few minutes.

Felt so utterly violated.

The first time his castle had come close to being breached. Too close, far too close, and it shook him up entirely, all the way through. Had felt safe once he had reached home and was able to keep an eye on Ludwig, but this changed things. Meant that, no matter how hard Alfred tried, there was now the very real chance that Ludwig would come face to face with hostility when Alfred wasn't there to blind him to it.

As he kept on layering the paint, the word became less and less visible, and relief began to set in, just a bit. Had time yet.

Wondered what would have hurt Ludwig more; the word or the swastika? Never wanted to have to find out.

Luck, alright...

Sure. Wouldn't last forever.

He spent the next few hours literally watching paint dry, and hoping above all else that somehow, someway, Ludwig just wouldn't notice.

Hardly.

The first thing Ludwig said that evening, when he came inside, was, "Did you paint the door?"

An awful pang of hurt, but Alfred just waved him off and said, so casually, "Don't you think it was time? It sure was dirty. Doesn't it look better?"

Oh, god.

Ludwig stared at him for just a second in contemplation, and then he gave a light scoff and carried on as he always did, without missing a beat, going straight into the kitchen and saying, "You really do like to take charge, don't you? I suppose you actually think you _are_ the man of the house now."

"Of course I am," was Alfred's immediate response, as he trailed Ludwig at a short distance, eyeing him and watching, waiting. Hoped Ludwig couldn't hear Alfred's heart hammering away, hoped that he didn't notice how he was swallowing, his nervous gestures and pursed lips.

His knee was throbbing, swollen, painful.

But Ludwig looked so happy, utterly oblivious, because, as it always was, Ludwig just trusted Alfred and believed everything he said without any question whatsoever. Ludwig believed in Alfred, all the way, and Alfred hated that that just wasn't enough to the world.

Ludwig looked over his shoulder at Alfred then, as he leaned there in the frame, and smiled.

"Funny how you painted the door, but you haven't fixed the wobbly chair yet."

Alfred came forward, fighting off any limp stubbornly, and intrusively wrapped his arms around Ludwig's waist as he tried to start dinner. Was damn glad that Ludwig couldn't see him in that second, because when he buried his face in the back of Ludwig's neck he thought for a horrible second that his mask had crumpled.

Still, he laughed, and managed to mutter, "People can see the door. No one can see the chair. But I'll fix it for you. Can't have you breaking your pretty neck."

"Good."

Alfred annoyed Ludwig for the rest of the night, in an effort to keep himself occupied so that Ludwig wouldn't notice any of his doubts, and Alfred wondered, from time to time, as Ludwig smiled so contentedly at him, if he was just that good of a liar or if Ludwig was just that naïve.

Maybe both.

Ludwig wasn't an idiot by any means, and was mistrustful of the world in its entirety, and yet it seemed that when Ludwig finally trusted someone, when he finally loved someone, he put everything he had into them and never even thought to question them at all. Ludwig would believe everything Alfred said, and sometimes it was difficult not to take advantage of that.

When they sat on the couch, Ludwig was quick to tease him, as he ran fingers through Alfred's messy hair, and murmur, "You're in trouble now. I'm going to put you to work fixing everything."

Alfred snorted, and kept that dumb smile plastered on his face without once letting it slip.

"You better at least pay me for my services."

A noise of thought, and then Ludwig whispered, in that rumble Alfred loved, "I'm sure we can work something out."

Ludwig leaned down to kiss him, and Alfred just tried to forget the day and get ready for the next one. His cycle now, this exhausting one day at a time routine. Never knowing what the next test would be.

Where it would come from.

Monday night, Alfred went to see the old man and was greeted by a look of utter confusion.

"Hey, there. ...that you, Sergeant?" A long stare. A raise of his father's shoulder in anxiety. "I think I got lost."

Alfred came inside, leaned down a bit towards his seated father, and said, softly, "You're home. You're not lost. It's me. Alfred."

An inhale, and a look around.

"Oh! Right. Sorry. I got confused." Eyes raked him up and down, as Alfred averted his own and tried to feel nothing, and then came a deep whisper, "When did you get so tall?"

Just wanted this to be over with.

A hand reached out and grabbed his own, and Alfred started pulling back, instinctively, but stopped short at the last second from the expression on the old man's face. An awful crinkle of his brow, a shadow, a look of something that was alarming close to being distraught.

"Kid—I'm sorry. I tried to save you. I'm sorry I let you die. But we— We killed all those Jerry, we did, all of 'em, so we got 'em back. Razed them all. Damn, though, I wish I coulda saved you. You look... I swear, you look so much like my son."

His stomach hurt.

As it had been under that car, Alfred suddenly felt that horrible sting in his eyes, that clutch of his throat, and as before he shook it off, pushed it down, and jostled his father's hand, firmly.

"It's me, I said. It's Alfred. It's me. The war's over, dad. You came home."

So many hadn't, and maybe somewhere down the line his father's memories had blurred, and a young kid he had once lost to a bullet had been merged with his son. Maybe he couldn't tell one from the other because in his head they had somehow become the same person.

Maybe because his father considered Alfred a victim, after all, to a German.

How much longer would this go on? Wished the old man would just go quietly.

Damn...

What a man he was. Maybe it was better that he didn't recognize himself sometimes, because maybe it wasn't always worth seeing.

When the old man calmed down, came back, settled and regained a bit of clarity, when he recognized Alfred, Alfred was quick to flee, coward that he was.

Tried to distract himself by planning for Christmas. Not so far off now. Surely this year he could do better than a dumb card and fixing a busted window. Wanted to do something spectacular, wonderful, something that Ludwig deserved, and came up absolutely empty every time.

Clueless.

Gilbert had come home; seemed as if no matter what Alfred did, no matter what astounding gift he managed to procure, whatever charming stunt he managed to pull off, it just wouldn't mean anything at all because Ludwig would only sit there the entire day and stare at Gilbert. Because, really, that was the best gift Ludwig could have ever gotten, and Alfred could never compete.

Yeah, maybe. Was still gonna try, at least. If only to keep his mind preoccupied.

Could only work so much, pretending.

In the last week of November, Alfred's luck finally and completely ran out.

He ran into his old gang, at long last.

In a way, Alfred considered this his final hurdle. Everything coming full circle. A rather sort of poetic bottom rung of the ladder. Supposed it was really only fair; Alfred had changed tune, sure, had turned a new leaf so to speak, but the things he had done with these men were reprehensible and he had never once been punished for them.

Maybe this was fitting.

They had been hidden in a side street. Didn't even see them there, until they had slunk out behind him and called his name.

"Hey, Jones! What's the rush? Where are you going? Don't you wanna hang out?"

Like old times.

Hardly—the tone of voice already had Alfred's fight or flight response surging up.

Was ready for flight, too, but they were just a bit quicker.

Alfred suddenly found his path blocked on either side, and somehow he already knew what was coming. How bizarre, to stand in between them like that, as the prey, when he had always been the alpha at the head of the pack.

Not a pleasant sensation, the other end.

He lifted his chin, sent them his best sneer, and tried to sidestep them. A hand in his chest stopped him short and shoved him back a step. His favorite person, of course, Ryan Jr.; hell, had almost forgotten the bastard existed. Could imagine the conversations he was having with his father, who was no doubt calling Alfred's father relentlessly only to be ignored. Wonder what the entire veteran community was thinking now. Must have been a remarkable scandal.

Alfred glanced down at the hand on his chest, curled his lip, and knew he was done for. Damn—no getting out of it, apparently.

"Where are you going, Jones? We just wanna talk a little."

"Got nothin' to talk about," Alfred griped, as he tried once more to get around, and was once more blocked.

"Plenty to talk about. Say. I heard a little rumor about you, not too long ago."

"Oh, yeah?" Alfred drawled, trying his best to look unbothered. "You did always like gossip."

He wondered, briefly, if it had been one of them that had defaced his door. Didn't bother asking, because if it had been they would have proudly boasted about it.

He tried once more to push past, and once more a hand on his chest impeded him.

From behind, a tease, "Hey, careful man! He might like that."

The hand quickly pulled back, a grimace of disgust, and Alfred grimaced too and made very sure to say, however foolish it may have been, "Stop, you're gonna make me sick. Not if you were the last man left alive, and _please_ believe how much I mean that."

They were not amused.

Didn't pounce, though.

Ryan was the one to lower his voice and say, so eagerly, "Hey. How did our last conversation go? I can't remember. Seem to recall it wasn't that friendly, though. Think you mighta punched me. But I gotta tell ya, everything makes a lot more sense now. Here I was, all this time, just thinkin' you'd become a Nazi sympathizer. Silly me."

"He is a sympathizer, though," came another tease. "Sympathized _that_ one all the way to bed."

Laughter, but not from Ryan, who might have shuddered a little, clearly horrified by the thought.

From behind, one of them reached out and flicked his ear. He swatted them off, but there was no denying the panic that was rising. That horrible vulnerability that came from being trapped and knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do to escape what was going to happen. Made him sick, thinking about Ludwig in this very position all those years, as Alfred had stared at him from afar and never once came forward to help.

His turn.

It was his turn, yeah, but it wasn't exactly rushing along. It was very clear what their intentions were, and yet all of them seemed rather reluctant to be the first to lift their hand. The last confrontation had been far more heated, spur of the moment, charged and emotional. Wasn't like that now, was very tense and very aggressive, but there weren't any hot-headed reactions.

They glanced at each other very frequently, shifting and shuffling, and it felt to Alfred as if they were nervous in some way. Must have been a bit different for them, having only ever beaten up those beneath them. Going for one of their own, deposed or not, may have been pushing the bounds of their bravery.

Alfred was an outcast now, but that didn't change that they had once followed him, and for that they hesitated.

One last time, Alfred took a step, and tried to push through.

One last time, he was blocked.

Had he tried harder, had he been more persistent and more vocal, sterner, Alfred was actually fairly certain that he could have gotten by them, the way they were fidgeting. Could have gotten away unscathed, because they were cowards, too, and he could have left them behind.

He could have, but in some way he didn't want to.

Didn't know if it was because he wanted to start a fight, even knowing he would be overwhelmed, because he was so frustrated. If he wanted to use this as an outlet. If he wanted them to go at him because he wanted to take one for Ludwig as he deserved. Maybe that would have felt a little right to him, just to let them get him once, so that he could feel a little better about doing nothing for Ludwig before.

Didn't know why he did it, but Alfred finally just inhaled and struck out, punching Ryan in the nose, because if he was only going to get one good hit in then he _very_ much wanted it to be in _that_ smug face.

That was good enough.

Guess that was the justification they needed to finally let loose, because they came out of their stupor and Alfred was dragged into the alley.

Surreal for sure.

Still couldn't comprehend that he was actually here. Wondered if maybe he had slipped into some other dimension where he was Ludwig and the roles had reversed and he had really just been here all along. Didn't know who he was because he was a different person in some different time. Just fell through the sky one day and had become Ludwig.

Or that silly thought could have been brought on from his head being slammed into the brick wall. A more likely explanation.

It was what he had imagined it would be, quick and brutal and efficient, and yet somehow, for it all, it didn't seem quite as savage as Alfred had expected. Only Ryan seemed to be putting everything he had into it, and the others pulled back as much as Alfred ever had. Maybe this was still a bit much for them, too frightening in a way.

Didn't matter; the job was done regardless, and when Alfred was on the ground rather than against the wall, his glasses clattered to the concrete. One of them, not as afraid of glasses as he was of Alfred, stomped down on them. Could hear the crunch of glass and metal.

Eh—least of his worries. Was more concerned about that boot that slammed into his ribs and the other one on his back. One more on his head.

His vision sure was getting dark, and it wasn't from losing his glasses.

Dizziness.

And then, right on the brink of unconsciousness, a sudden savior, and it was the last person he ever expected.

"Get off of him! How _dare_ — Unbelievable! Get off! _Get off_!"

They froze still, and Alfred tried to get the world to stop spinning long enough to figure out where the hell he even was, let alone who was saving him. Ugh, that was the worst feeling, having someone coming to save his sorry ass. Was supposed to be him saving other people. Humiliating.

Footsteps.

Silence, suddenly, and then a hand on his arm, trying to haul him upright.

"Oh—! Please be okay."

He heard himself laugh, before his brain really caught up and he could see, because he knew who it was and somehow that was hilarious to him, really was, couldn't ever explain why, though. His head was splitting open, so maybe that had something to do with it.

Sure enough, when he was on his knees, swaying a little back and forth, there was Alice, holding his arm and trying so hard to get him up to his feet, but he was too heavy for her. Couldn't make her out in detail, but knew it was her all the same.

Man! Wished he could've gotten his head up in time to see her beating her way through them with her purse and scaring them off. His loss.

He looked up at her through his daze, knowing he was smiling inappropriately, and when she saw he was staring at her and seeing her (well, sort of), she asked, frantically, "Are you alright? Can you stand?"

Alfred just smiled up at her, dumbly, laughed a little more, and then said, as he tried to pull himself upright, "I always knew you would be the man."

She stared at him through wide eyes, aghast and alarmed, but when she saw that Alfred wasn't falling over dead, she actually cracked a smile.

"Well," she teased, as she held him steady, "Someone has to be."

Alfred just laughed some more even though it hurt like hell.

She looked around a bit for his glasses, and gave a soft, "Oh!" when she saw them crushed there on the concrete. She picked them up all the same, handed them to Alfred, and with that she tried to drag him along.

That was the first time that Alfred could ever remember that Alice hadn't once cared about how dirty she was, and she held him there up against her, walked him through every puddle and every obstacle, and when suddenly he was in front of Ludwig's house she was as covered in blood and dirt as he was, or just about.

She didn't seem to care, and he was alarmingly fond of her in that moment.

When he looked up at last, though, it wasn't Ludwig's house he was in front of. It was hers. He assumed it was hers, anyway, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't his. Couldn't see where he was, what the street was, and could only guess.

He looked over at her, and she was trying to smile, despite it all.

"Let's get you cleaned up before we send you home, hm? No need to worry _him_ any more than necessary."

Oh—

Fond? Nah. For the first time, Alfred thought maybe he actually loved Alice just a little bit. Go figure. Never thought that would ever cross his mind.

Had never been to her house before, not once in all these years, and it was quite fascinating in a way. Didn't know really what he had expected. Supposed, with the way she was, he had expected to cross the threshold into some kind of bizarre occult setting. Candles and skulls and odd tribal knick-knacks or some such, something out of a movie.

Maybe he was actually a bit disappointed to find that it was just a perfectly normal house, not one single detail out of place. Squinted his eyes only to find nothing of obvious interest. The only thing that might have drawn attention at all were the numerous bookshelves and some of the very odd titles mixed in, when she walked him close enough by for him to make them out.

Far too normal.

What a shame.

...so where the hell had she brewed that stupid love potion back in the day?

She pushed him down in a chair, went to the bathroom, and Alfred leaned his pounding head back and tried to regain his senses.

A wet cloth fell on his cheek shortly after, and Alice tended to him very carefully.

Hated the metallic taste in his mouth. Couldn't get rid of it.

As she wiped the blood from his face, he turned his glasses about in his hands, knocking out what remained of the glass and sticking it in a nearby ashtray, wondering how salvageable the frame was. Anything to keep his mind occupied, to keep from thinking about his inevitable encounter with Ludwig. Made him nauseous, thinking about it.

She asked, helpfully, "Shall I accompany you to acquire another pair?"

"No, thanks," he grumbled. "I've got a spare one back home."

Although going there was equally unpleasant.

"I can walk you there, too. Can you even see?"

"I know the way."

Knew this city well enough to walk it blind for the most part. As long as she told him what street he was actually on, he'd find his way just fine. She had done enough for him, and truthfully he just didn't want her to see how bad his father had gotten, assuming she didn't already know from her own father.

But she clearly didn't know.

As she pressed the cloth into the gash on his head, she asked, softly, "So. Does your father know about all this?"

"Probably," Alfred said, wincing a little as she poked and prodded. " _I_ haven't said it to him, if that's what you mean. Everyone knows by now."

"So it would seem."

Alfred looked up at her through a squint, and asked, "Didn't you say your dad was gonna talk to him? Why would you think he wouldn't know?"

She was unbothered, and merely replied, "Daddy said he never picks up the phone. They haven't spoken. I wondered if maybe this had something to do with it."

"Yeah. Guess so. He's embarrassed."

Not really a lie at all; the old man had been very aware of the rumors when he had been clear-headed. Knew what was happening, and Alfred knew that he was humiliated.

They fell quiet, her hands more soothing than they had any right to be as he hung his head and came close to just drifting off. She kept him there until the gash stopped bleeding for the most part, and likely it was coming close to time for her father to return.

Time to go.

And then Alice pulled him once more to his feet, gave him a long good look-over, and when she was satisfied, she reached out and patted his arm. "Don't worry about it," she said, as she smiled ever up at him. "It won't happen again."

Alfred just stared at her, and wondered if he wanted to know what the hell that meant.

Well. Between her and that whacko Lovino, he supposed maybe it was just better not to know. She had as much clout as her father did, and so Alfred put a little trust into her hands.

He did turn his eyes briefly to all of her little spell-books sitting there on the shelf, and couldn't help but snort. Knowing her, she was probably going to sit down that very night and try to jinx every single one of the bastards, put some kind of curse on them, and that was just as hilarious to him as her picking him up had been.

She walked him to the door, and shooed him off with words of encouragement. He clung to them, and made his way home out of instinct. Couldn't see a damn thing, and was extremely vulnerable for it. Made his way, eventually, without getting hit by a car, although by the time he reached his door he rather wished he had been.

Horror.

Never had Alfred felt such dread as he did then, standing in front of that door, handle in hand and knowing, at last, that he couldn't keep _lying_ to Ludwig. Couldn't keep him in the dark anymore. Couldn't lead him astray. Couldn't keep up the act.

He was entirely frozen.

Couldn't breathe.

And then he panicked, he gave in to the flight mode that roared up again, and he let go of the doorknob and quickly backtracked, speeding away from home and changing direction. Couldn't face Ludwig, just couldn't, couldn't stand to see the look on his face. Was only inevitable, knew he couldn't just hide somewhere until the bruises faded, but couldn't do it tonight.

Not tonight.

He fled, ambling through the blurry streets and heading off towards his father's house. He stood outside the door for a while, listening, and when he heard no movement he crept inside. His luck held in that aspect, as his father dozed away on the couch, and Alfred was able to slink into his bedroom and dig out his spare pair of glasses.

As he left, though, with clear vision, he noticed that his father was wearing his old uniform.

...how strange.

He made for Francis' immediately after, very much intending to spend the night there and gather up his courage for the looming conversation tomorrow. Wasn't so hard to knock on Francis' door, because Francis had nursed him through much roughhousing as a child. Was a bit taken aback for that by Francis' reaction, when he opened the door and saw Alfred there.

A cry.

"What happened? Oh, god—!"

Alfred was grabbed by the arm, dragged inside, and suddenly Francis was blabbering, running hands over Alfred's cuts and bruises and shifting between fear and anger and speaking so quickly it was hard for Alfred to keep up. A far cry from when Francis had just sighed and rolled his eyes and pulled out some bandages.

Francis was so frantic, in fact, that at points in his verbal assault he actually slipped back into French, and eventually what he was saying became a mangled multi-language mess that Alfred just couldn't understand at all.

Alfred could only stand there dumbly in Francis' hands and wait it out.

When Francis' panicked tirade slowed down enough for Alfred to get a word in, all Alfred said was, "Can I use your phone?"

Francis' wide-eyed look. A sputter, and then a nod, as Francis let him go.

Alfred drifted to the phone on the end-table, feeling so out in space, and when he called Ludwig, he hoped that his voice was confident and easygoing. Hoped that Ludwig wouldn't hear any distress in him, wouldn't notice anything awry.

_"Hallo?"_

Alfred opened his mouth, and choked.

A long, awful second, and when his throat unclenched, Alfred said, "Hey. It's me. Just lettin' you know, I'm gonna stay with my uncle tonight, alright? Late night."

Alfred surprised himself, sometimes—his voice was perfectly smooth. Unbothered. He sounded as casual as he always did, and Ludwig quickly accepted it, with a calm, _"Alright. Goodnight."_

"Night, baby. See ya."

Felt so dazed and confused, lost, but his voice was fine, just fine, and Alfred stood there for a long dumb moment as the dial tone sounded out, before he finally set the phone down and looked around.

So lost.

Francis came forward again, grabbed him back up, and sat him forcibly down at the kitchen table. When he sat in front of Alfred, his face was very stern, very hard, and that was the first time that Francis had ever actually looked the part of the severe father.

Alfred foundered under his gaze, and looked away.

"Tell me what happened. Now."

Even Francis' voice had turned to steel.

A painful hesitation, before Alfred finally shrugged a shoulder and then muttered, "Just ran into some old acquaintances, was all."

"Oh?"

Francis was in no mood for nonsense.

"I guess," Alfred grumbled, "that they didn't really like the news they heard about me."

A low, angry hiss.

"Didn't I tell you to be careful? Didn't I? Didn't I warn you, Alfred? I told you to be careful. You could have gone about this so differently, but you're so—"

Francis cut himself off abruptly, hands gripping the end of the table, and then he took a deep breath and seemed to be calming himself.

Alfred kept on staring at nothing, and regretted. Francis _had_ told him to be more careful, but Alfred had never listened. Had been too proud, too bold.

At last, after apparently coming down from his anger, Francis finally opened his mouth, and asked, so tentatively, "Can we talk for a little bit?"

His voice had gone from steel to soft, and Alfred could see that suddenly Francis was the one squirming.

Automatically, Alfred nodded, as Francis shifted his weight endlessly, restlessly, and seemed so painfully anxious suddenly. Alfred dreaded the conversation and yet somehow he already knew in some way what Francis wanted to say.

A horrible hesitation, as Alfred poked irritably at the bruise over his eye, and then Francis finally gathered up his courage.

"Is this really all worth it to you? I'm not saying that you don't care for him, but... Alfred. I can't help but wonder sometimes if you're only doing this to get back at your father. Is it really worth all of this? I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you, I really can't. Knowing that you're in danger. Him, too, of course, but I— Can't you just..." A struggle for words, as Alfred glowered above Francis' shoulder and at the wall. "Wouldn't it be easier for the both of you, just to go back to the way you were before? Wouldn't it be best to part ways? Sometimes we can't have everything we want. Maybe— Oh, I hate saying it, but maybe you really should just do what your father had wanted and settle down with that girl. I'm sure that you and him care about each other, but is it really the way you think it is? You're a kid; what do you know about love? Are you sure you're not just trying to make it up to him, for all those years? Is this who you really want to be? What's so wrong with being normal, Alfred? Why do you always have to stand out? You don't need to be different. Can't you just be a normal man?"

Silence.

The worst he had experienced in a long while, too, as the words cut and air was hard to find. Maybe it wasn't what was being said alone that made it so hurtful, but rather who the words were coming from, because Francis was the only man Alfred actually strove to impress. Francis was the person in the world that Alfred most wanted to make proud, and to hear that from _him_ —

Had no words. None at all.

Alfred just stood up then, without once looking at Francis, and turned on his heel and walked out. Francis called after him, rather hurriedly, but that time Alfred didn't stop and didn't look back.

Nothing to say.

He knew then that Francis really had just been telling Alfred what he had wanted to hear, that although Francis had seemed supportive enough on the surface, underneath it all he really had been quite put off. Had been easier to support Alfred when everything had been distant in a sense for Francis, when Francis wasn't really forced to face anything, but now that consequences were making themselves visible Francis was rethinking his words.

Couldn't really say he was that surprised, and honestly he couldn't hold it against Francis, couldn't blame him, because Francis had at least lied to him instead of disowning him. More than he could have said for the rest of the city.

'I don't think any differently of you,' he had said.

A lie.

It was in that moment, perhaps, that Alfred realized that the only person who had never once truly thought differently of him, that had never seen him in a different light, that had never once saw anything at all askew within him, was Matthew.

Only Matthew.

All this time, only Matthew's opinion of Alfred had changed for the better, and Alfred sought Matthew out then relentlessly, because he needed to speak and he needed to speak right then and there or he would go crazy.

When he reached Matthew's house, he rapped on the window as he always did, and Matthew lifted up the pane, as he always did. Just like old times, almost, Alfred running over to Matthew's all beat up. Only the perpetrator was different this time around.

Matthew saw the state he was in, panicked just a bit, and helped haul Alfred all the way in through the window. When he toppled on the floor, Matthew began blubbering away.

"What the hell happened to you? Are you alright? What happened? Who— Hey! You okay, man? You wanna go to the hospital?"

Alfred just shook his head, dumbly, as he pulled himself to his feet, and he stared at Matthew then so furiously that he could have easily set Matthew on fire. Matthew shifted his weight under that gaze, and seemed quite alarmed.

"What?" was all Matthew managed to ask, before Alfred was upon him.

Had hugged Matthew before, of course he had, but never like that. He wrapped his arms around Matthew's chest, squeezed him as tightly as he could, and lifted him clean off the ground in his exuberance.

A pained exhale of air from Matthew as his chest constricted beneath Alfred's furious embrace. A wriggle from Matthew, as he squirmed and tried to gain some leverage, and after a while he managed to move his hands just enough to clench Alfred's belt and try to regain some control.

"Got something on your mind?" Matthew finally wheezed, with great effort, and Alfred at last put him down, letting him go and promptly clapping his hands very heavily on Matthew's shoulders.

A long stare, as Matthew gawked at him as if Alfred had finally cracked, and then at last Alfred said, very deeply and very sincerely, "You're my best friend. You always were. I'm sorry I never let you know. I'm a jerk."

Always had been, and probably always would be, but Matthew had stuck by him anyway, even though Alfred was one of the worst possible best friends to have.

Matthew scoffed, drew up his fist and punched Alfred's chest very gently, and said, teasingly, "Wow, you can finally admit you're a jerk? Is this really you or do I have an imposter on my hands? Did you have the jerk just beaten right out of you?"

At long last, Alfred laughed, a little.

"Maybe. Would explain a lot."

He crashed shortly after on Matthew's floor as always, and even through all of the quiet chatter Alfred felt the mounting dread.

Morning came far too soon, and Alfred crept out.

Work was awkward and slow, as the guys tried to pretend that Alfred wasn't a wreck and Alfred pretended they weren't there at all. Just counting down the minutes until he had to go home.

Suddenly, it was time, and Alfred was once more standing before his own door and too afraid to go inside.

Had to be done.

After many inhales and mental pep-talks, Alfred snuck inside the house, and braced himself.

Ludwig was on him in a second, and Alfred's eyes were glued to the floor as Ludwig's voice grew high and hands ran over his face and down his neck. Not as panicked as Francis, nor as vocal as Matthew, and yet somehow the worst of all, as Alfred had to see the horrible fall of Ludwig's face.

"What happened? Did— Is this why you didn't come home last night?"

Dumbly, Alfred nodded, and escaped Ludwig to drift into the kitchen and sit down.

The silence then was almost as bad as the one with Francis had been, because Alfred could already envision in his head the collapse of that wonderful happiness that had surrounded Ludwig.

Gone.

The scrape of the chair, as Ludwig sat, eyes as down as Alfred's.

As if they just didn't know what to say to each other.

It was Ludwig who eventually broke the impasse, as Alfred mourned the loss of something entirely intangible.

Ludwig finally lifted his eyes, stared Alfred down, and merely said, "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Alfred shifted, and replied, so lowly, "I didn't want you to worry about it."

"I always worry," Ludwig chided. "Every day, over everything. Always. You think I wasn't already worried about you? I always am. You should have said something."

Alfred furrowed his brow, lifted his head, and sharpened his voice.

"Why? What good would it do? If I had told you, nothing would have changed, except you woulda spent all day thinking about it! How's that help? I didn't want you to do that. You were already worried about Gilbert. I don't want you to worry about me more."

True, and Ludwig knew it.

Ludwig may have always been fretting in the back of his mind, but that was only because that was Ludwig's nature. Hadn't been given great cause for any of that worry, and that was why Ludwig had been smiling. Having him hear something, see something, that fretting would have come to the front, would have become priority.

There had been no need for that.

A piercing stare, but then Ludwig seemed to concede that point to Alfred, because he looked away.

They sat in awkward silence, and then Ludwig finally stood up and came over, standing above Alfred and looking over his wounds with that eagle gaze, turning his head this way and that.

"You should have gone to the doctor to get that stitched," Ludwig murmured, observing the gash on his forehead.

Alfred was silent, and so was the rest of the night.

If Ludwig was angry with him, then he didn't say anything.

What Alfred had feared had happened, though, because it was clear enough in the morning that crease in Ludwig's forehead, that air of worry that surrounded him. The way his eyes followed Alfred to the door, and the way he leapt up that night when Alfred got home to look him over.

Hadn't wanted that, but it had only been inevitable.

Alfred's pretending, after all, was only that. Didn't mean anything to anyone else. Purely in his own mind.

More trouble came along.

His father was increasingly unpredictable. Seemed to be declining, and rather rapidly, because it was a very rare moment now that his father was lucid when he came over. More often, he was back in some memory, days long gone, and Alfred never knew anymore what he was going to get.

Came in one day, and his father rushed up to him in alarm, saluted him, and said, urgently, "There ya are, Captain! Been lookin' everywhere for ya, musta gotten lost, I can't find anyone else. I thought the troops had pulled out and left me behind here with the Jerry—"

Alfred had grabbed his father's arms instinctively to keep him still, eyes wide and too stunned to speak.

Not again.

His father kept on blabbering, even as Alfred led him over to the sofa and sat him down, and he took a good long look around, sighing through his nose and feeling helpless and trapped. What the hell was he even supposed to do? Try to snap the old man out of it? Play the role of captain and try to calm him down?

Didn't know what to do.

Eventually, Alfred just grabbed his father's shoulders and said, for what felt like the hundredth time, "The war is over."

A look of shock.

"Over? We—we won? I can go home and see my son?"

Goddammit, why did this haveta keep happening? Didn't want to know now if the old man had loved him all along and had just had a shitty way of showing it, really didn't. Didn't want to know what had fueled him during the war.

Just wanted to keep moving forward without continuously looking over his shoulder.

Alfred leaned farther down, thinking of what to say.

Didn't say anything in the end, because the old man came back, if only a little. His father lifted his head, and the smile there on his face somehow made Alfred feel worse than any of those words had.

A hand reached up, and touched the frame of his glasses.

"You're so close. Can't see anymore, huh? C'mon, we'll go get you some new ones. Can't have you not seein' the blackboard. You already used that excuse."

A flash in his mind.

Eleven years old again, his father walking him down the street and into the optometrist's office. Taking his old glasses off, everything cast into blurry smudges, and then, when he finally procured new ones, setting them on his nose and seeing his father light back up, in both clarity and smile.

_'See me now? That's better, huh! You get that from your mama, ya know.'_

Alfred opened his mouth, and said, "I'm not a kid anymore, dad."

It was then that something glinted in the light, and Alfred looked down to see the hilt of a gun in his father's pocket. A surge of unease.

A flash of fear.

A hesitation, and then his father reached up and clapped Alfred's arm.

"No. I guess you're not. Come on. Let me take you out somewhere."

Alfred shook his head, and stepped back, trying, weakly, "Lay down and rest. You're sick. Just rest for now. We'll go out some other time, alright?"

"I don't feel sick."

All the same, the old man relaxed back on the couch, and Alfred hung there close to the door in contemplation, eyes locked onto that gun. Felt like hours that he argued with himself up in his head, back and forth.

Wasn't safe, he knew it, and yet in the end Alfred turned aside and walked away without taking it. So many things could go wrong, leaving an old man with dementia with a gun, but Alfred didn't take it, because, god help him...

The absolute worst part of him almost hoped that the old man would use it and put himself out of his misery and therefore end Alfred's.

Maybe he deserved everything he was getting now.

He didn't take the gun.

Felt so _stifled_ suddenly.

Ludwig was worried, and the old man was less and less lucid.

Everything piled up, and sometimes Alfred had to stop what he was doing and squint his eyes and clamp his jaw, steady his breathing, because often now the urge to cry would come rushing up out of nowhere. So frustrated, and wouldn't let himself release it. Kept bottling it all up.

Just hated the way Ludwig looked so relieved when Alfred finally made it home, knowing that he had been sitting there waiting anxiously for hours.

They hadn't gone to the park in weeks.

Five days before Christmas, Alfred's greatest fear suddenly came to pass.

He came home one day, and Ludwig was curled up on the couch, face pressed into the cushion and very clearly trying to burrow away.

Oh, _no_ —

Alfred crept over, knelt down, and reached out tentatively to rest his hand on Ludwig's shoulder. Ludwig shifted a bit, made a noise deep in his chest, but made no real move to acknowledge Alfred.

A long hesitation, and Alfred finally asked, "What's wrong? You alright?"

Almost didn't want to know.

It took a long while, but Ludwig finally heaved a muffled sigh, squirmed around until he was facing Alfred, and Alfred could see how red his eyes were, although it didn't seem as if he had been crying. Just looked exhausted.

Ludwig's eyes ran over Alfred's face as Alfred's hand stroked his shoulder, and finally Ludwig spoke.

"Well. The Germans all know about us now."

A sinking of Alfred's heart, at that awful look on Ludwig's face. The crinkle in his brow, the crease in his forehead, the pursing of his lips. The face of a man who was very desperately attempting to appear utterly unfazed even though he could see his entire world crumbling down around him.

Alfred finally pressed, gently, "And?"

A very brief collapse of Ludwig's face, pushed quickly away, because Ludwig, after all, was a master at pretending to be unfazed. Alfred should have taken lessons from him, in hindsight.

Couldn't stand the sad way Ludwig's eyes kept on flitting over his face. If Alfred had been using Ludwig as a light, then he could see in that moment that Ludwig was using Alfred to reaffirm every shred of faith and confidence he had just lost. Regaining his sense of self.

At last, Ludwig murmured, "I stopped by the shop on the way home. Rudolf asked me— He wanted to know if it was true. I was so scared, but I can't lie. So I told him it was. And he..." Another horrible crumple of Ludwig's composure. "He told me I could still shop there, but that he just couldn't help me with anything else from now on. Said that everyone had already talked about it, and that, as long as I'm with _you_ , I'm not a part of that community anymore. I can't be with you and be with them at the same time."

Alfred could have sworn that it was his heart suddenly that was breaking, although surely it was Ludwig's. Could barely breathe.

A firm grip on Ludwig's shoulder, offering whatever reassurance he could, and Alfred was silent and still, clueless as to what he could possibly say. How awful that must have been for Ludwig, these people he had known and relied on for so long turning against him. Losing that last bit of security, community, friendship.

Home.

Essentially, Ludwig had truly lost the last bit of home he had left, the very second the Germans had turned against him. So _far_ from home, so isolated and alone, with only those few people who spoke his language and knew his customs and understood him on the basest level. Couldn't fathom losing something like that.

Another horrible silence, and then Ludwig whispered, in a barely audible rumble, "They say of course that Gilbert is still very welcome, naturally, and that if I ever were to leave you, they'd do the best they could to pretend it never happened. I... I didn't want to accept it, so I went over to Mrs. Schultz'. I knocked. I just... I wanted her to tell me that everything was going to be okay, like she always does. She saw me the through the window. And that was the first time she didn't open the door."

Alfred could envision Ludwig standing there before that door as Alfred had so many times, chin low and chest clenched and hoping, hoping, that she would just give him a chance.

Couldn't be.

The only times that Alfred had ever seen Ludwig cry had been the day he had lost his dog and that day that Gilbert had miraculously reappeared. Alfred was far too aware that he was very close to a third occurrence.

Ludwig's deep voice was cracking. Trembling.

So close.

Ludwig's hand suddenly raised into the air, fell onto Alfred's cheek, and Alfred ducked his head then to save face because seeing Ludwig like that was killing him in every possible way.

Ludwig had been given a very clear choice : community, or Alfred.

That terrified him.

When his throat finally unclenched long enough to speak, Alfred uttered, lowly, "I can't tell you what to do. I don't know what you feel, how you feel about it, but I— I gave up the whole world when I realized that I was in love with you. And I'd do it again, a hundred times, for you. You're enough for me. I'm trying my best to be enough, too, but I know I screw up so much, so I get it if—"

Didn't get to finish, when Ludwig's hand slid over from his cheek to cover his lips, and Ludwig pressed forward shortly after to kiss him.

Ah, shit.

Alfred pulled quickly away and ducked his head low and to the side in mortification, because fuckin' hell, suddenly he was _crying_.

Pitiful.

Had made it so far, so long, had given everything he had, had fought it off for so long, and it was at that moment, at long last, that Alfred finally cracked.

Wanted to be enough for Ludwig to give up his own world as Alfred had.

Was absolutely humiliated, crying like that in front of Ludwig, of all people, when it was for Ludwig that he strove so hard now to be stern and impassive. Letting Ludwig see a break in his composure was inexcusable.

A shift, a movement, as Ludwig pulled himself upright onto his knees, settled there before Alfred, reached down to take his face, and forced his head up. No hiding it then, and somehow meeting Ludwig's eyes in that moment just made him cry all the harder.

His glasses were plucked neatly from his face, Ludwig lifted his head, and when Ludwig kissed him again, all Alfred could do was fall against him and grab the back of Ludwig's head. A long moment of breathlessness as Ludwig kissed him and Alfred cried, and when Ludwig pulled back he merely pressed their foreheads together and whispered, "I can't give up the world for you. That's impossible. You are the world, to me. I'll go wherever you take me."

It wasn't the proudest moment of his life by a long shot, but Alfred pressed his face into Ludwig's chest and clenched his shoulders and sat there for what felt like hours, bawling away helplessly into Ludwig's shirt.

A long time coming.

Felt stupid and pathetic as he sobbed away, yeah, but damn if he didn't feel a hell of a lot better afterwards, when he finally managed to catch his breath and gather up the shards of his composure. Ludwig was quiet and still, and didn't say a word the entire while Alfred had used him as a handsome towel. Felt good to relieve some of that stress, to get out some of that pressure, to take the edge off.

The world was blurry when Alfred finally pulled back, from tears and the lack of glasses, but Ludwig was close enough to be crystal clear, and that was beautiful.

A visual representation of how he felt—Ludwig was the only thing worth seeing.

Better to look at Ludwig and let everything else fade away as long as he could.

The world was burning, and the flames were at last breaching Alfred's castle. The tower in which he had placed Ludwig wasn't as safe. The walls not secure.

No matter how much Alfred desired it, he couldn't always be the knight.

Helpless down below.

The castle just kept crumbling.


	23. Danse Macabre

**Chapter 23**

**Danse Macabre**

Ludwig had only ever had two wonderful Christmases in his life; those first two after he had been adopted, before Gilbert had left home.

Could say, at long last, that he was getting a third.

Alfred had given him an interesting one the year prior, but not a good one. For it all, though, Ludwig still had Alfred's card and that Iron Cross tucked away in his dresser, and he peeked at them when dawn broke, if only to see how far they had come in a year.

How extraordinary. The most surreal year he could have ever known.

He hadn't put much into anything this year, but he hadn't any year previous, either. Had never decorated, had never cared, because there was no point. That had changed in theory, but Ludwig found that, when it all came down to the wire, he was just too worried and too stressed to really put effort into Christmas.

Hung up an advent calendar this year, and that was all.

Alfred had tried to be a bit more proactive, pinning a few glittery items here and there, sticking a little Christmas tree the size of a kettle on the kitchen counter and dutifully decorating it.

Ludwig watched it blinking when Alfred had been gone, and tried to take some comfort in it as he waited fearfully for Alfred to make it home and for another day to end.

When he made his way downstairs that morning, it was with a sense of something that was a strange mixture of elation and melancholy. Waiting so breathlessly for Gilbert and Antonio to come over, and sad now that he hadn't put more effort into it when it would be Gilbert's first Christmas back together.

From what Gilbert had said, Antonio had gone all-out at his place, so perhaps there was no loss.

Just sitting on the couch with Gilbert would be more than enough.

Alfred came tumbling down the stairs shortly after, embraced Ludwig from behind, and kissed the top of his head, uttering, huskily, "Merry Christmas."

Ludwig smiled, holding Alfred's forearms, and teased, "No surprises today, alright? Behave yourself."

"You ask too much."

Alfred plopped down, staring at Ludwig rather calmly, and Ludwig reached out to smooth Alfred's hair.

"Are you going to go see your father today?"

Alfred's grimace.

"I'll check on him tonight, really quick. Won't stay."

"You won't go over to your uncle's?"

Alfred was strangely quiet, and Ludwig found his expression just as odd.

Eventually, Alfred just smiled, thinly, and said, "Nah. I'd rather be with you."

Adoration.

When the sun had risen fully, the lock jingled, and Ludwig found himself actually bristling with anticipation, exhilaration. When Gilbert came inside and was standing there in the frame, Ludwig meant to leap on him, but found himself rather immobilized.

That feeling.

Gilbert was dressed so neatly, well-groomed and looking very put together, and like that it struck Ludwig how much Gilbert looked like his father in certain features.

Exhilaration dulled, excitement died down, and it was a pleasant sense of calm that came up instead. Felt as if he were in some odd lull then, subdued and tranquil, and when Gilbert came into the kitchen, Antonio behind him, Ludwig just stood up and hugged him instead of tackling him.

The comforting scent of Gilbert. A kiss on his cheek.

Sometimes, Ludwig still wondered if he in was off in some dream.

Nightmares just occasionally crept in.

Now that everyone was present, Ludwig and Antonio banded together to make breakfast, as Gilbert and Alfred hovered a bit, waiting hopefully to be put to use. When they weren't, Ludwig could hear them reluctantly speaking to each other, and Ludwig was glad that Alfred couldn't understand how Gilbert (of all people) was fussing at him for not dressing nicely and combing his hair.

Ludwig just smiled at the stove, and Antonio snorted.

Alfred, ever oblivious, blabbered on happily to Gilbert, who just sighed and shook his head.

...guess Gilbert hadn't been studying at all.

When they sat together at the table, it wasn't exactly breakfast that had Ludwig's full attention.

It was around then that Gilbert and Antonio really caught his eye. Couldn't put his finger on it, exactly. Just something about the air around them. Snagged his interest, and found himself staring at them from time to time. Every time Antonio spoke to Gilbert, he leaned in to him, very closely. Gilbert would smile, laugh, and sometimes he would nudge Antonio with his shoulder or elbow.

Curious.

Was likely nothing at all, and Ludwig turned his eyes to Alfred instead, and was satisfied that Alfred was actually being very well-behaved, despite how nervous he might have been. Couldn't have felt too great, being the only one there that wasn't in on the conversation, the only one that didn't speak German.

Ludwig leaned in to him, just as Antonio did to Gilbert, and whispered to him to keep him active and engaged.

They sat together in the tiny living room afterwards, Gilbert and Ludwig on the couch and Antonio and Alfred cross-legged on the floor.

A remarkable scene.

The agreement between the four of them had been to exchange no presents, because financially speaking it wasn't a great time for any of them, but it wasn't very surprising that Gilbert had broken the rule.

Sort of.

What Gilbert pulled out of his coat and stuck into Ludwig's hand was a small stack of stained and wrinkled envelopes. Looked as if they had been crammed in that coat pocket for years and years.

Not too far off the mark.

Gilbert stared at him, intensely as ever, and explained, "I kept on writing letters to you, for as long as I was able. I saved them, best I could. They got a little dirty, but hopefully you can still read them. Gettin' back to you—that's what kept me going in there, you know? Sorry I couldn't get ya anything else. Next year will be different."

Ludwig just stared holes into the stack of letters in his hand, and didn't speak. Couldn't, because he would have lost composure, and that was not appropriate right now. Not now. Had already seen Alfred break down, and didn't want to follow suit.

Gilbert grabbed him by the side of the head, yanked him in to kiss his temple, and seemed very much to agree, whispering in his ear, "Read 'em later. Don't you need you crying on me now. I still have drinking to do."

He laughed, hoping to god it didn't sound like a sob, and set the letters on the end-table.

Still, though, Ludwig looked over at Gilbert, and murmured in turn, "I kept all the letters you wrote, but when— I left them under my pillow. I'm sorry. I wanted to go back and get them, but I couldn't."

Gilbert shook his head, and Ludwig understood everything he wanted to say. No point in dwelling on it at this moment.

Alfred sat quietly upon the floor, arms folded on his knees and chin resting atop them, and seemed happy, despite being rather out of place.

The drinking started shortly after. Gilbert and Antonio had brought a good supply of wine, and Alfred had stocked up on beer.

One of his happier times, those long hours, as the four of them drank and loosened up and Alfred started speaking to Antonio and Gilbert eagerly, even though they couldn't understand him. Seeing Alfred and Antonio speaking, at long last, gesturing with their hands and cursing the other because they knew they could get away with it.

Ludwig just watched them, head rested on Gilbert's shoulder, and smiled.

Wonderful. Life could be like that, sometimes.

The phone rang hours later, and a tipsy Ludwig stood up, tottered right over onto Gilbert's lap, and stood up again with the help of Gilbert shoving at his back. When he picked up the phone, he had to pull it quickly away from his ear with a wince when a shrill voice all but screamed _, "Merry Christmas, Ludovico! I miss you so much!"_

Felicia was about as drunk as he was.

He snorted, brought the phone back up, could hear the loud party in the background (god! What an Italian Christmas must have been like!), and he replied, "I miss you, too. You're welcome to come over."

She accepted the invitation, but never came, and Ludwig didn't expect her too, from how far gone she already was.

Ludwig just spent the rest of the tipsy night using Gilbert as a pillow, and drunk Alfred and drunker Antonio seemed to come to some kind of odd allegiance and staggered together into the kitchen to drunk-cook dinner. How they hadn't burnt the house down, Ludwig could never say, but was hardly concerned about it at the time, cuddling with Gilbert and fussing over him as Gilbert enjoyed being the center of attention.

Needed this day, he really had. Had needed this reprieve from real life, from the outside world.

Needed to remember that there could still be good days yet.

The rest of the night was vocal and active, they used the very last of their clarity to play a game of cards, and even though Alfred didn't understand the rules or what he was really even doing he somehow still won.

Figured.

A bit of a blur after, as Alfred dragged staggering Ludwig upstairs and Antonio passed out on the sofa, Gilbert still hanging in there, too used to hard liquor to be taken down by beer, and was ransacking the kitchen the last Ludwig saw.

Alfred threw Ludwig on the bed, crawled in beside of him, and as the ceiling spun, Ludwig heard him opening the drawer on the end-table, and it took a long time for his eyes to focus when Alfred crawled half on top of him and stuck something in his face.

Really only came to when his eyes started itching and he realized he was being assaulted with glitter. Alfred realized it too and pulled back a bit, slurring, "Sorry!"

A card.

Ludwig snorted and took it, and rolled over onto his side so that he was facing Alfred as he studied it.

How familiar.

Alfred grumbled, crankily, "I hated your no-present rule. You ruined my plans."

"Sorry," Ludwig replied, even though he wasn't. Was terrified yet of Alfred's 'plans'. Alfred being fully unleashed was a frightening concept.

Alfred didn't need to know that Ludwig had broken his own no-present rule : he had crept out the day prior and bought flowers, and had left them with a note on Felicia's doorstep. Nothing grand, but hoped it would make her smile.

"Are you going to give me a card every year, apologizing for being a jerk?" Ludwig teased, as Alfred reached forward and clumsily tried to rub the glitter off of his face.

"Probably."

A long stare between them, and Ludwig finally glanced down and opened the card.

Nothing at all inside, except for a little scribble.

'I love you.'

A jolt of adrenaline. A rush of happiness, tinted with sadness.

Alfred had said it several times now, and was no doubt waiting for Ludwig to respond, to say it in turn, to receive a mutual vocal confirmation. And Ludwig tried, he really did, but just couldn't ever say it. Always choked, in the end, because he felt so foolish, trying to say something like that. Had been hard enough saying it to Gilbert, and somehow saying it to Alfred was horrifying.

Alfred's hand rested yet on his face, and Ludwig raised his eyes. Alfred stared at him expectantly, and Ludwig opened his mouth.

As always, nothing came out.

Why was it so hard to say?

Foundering and vulnerable, Ludwig just pushed forward and kissed Alfred and hoped that that would be enough, that Alfred could just understand somehow the way Ludwig felt even if he couldn't express it in words.

Alfred must not have been too upset; still held Ludwig up against him as they fell asleep.

He was working up to it, he really was. One of these days.

Gilbert and Antonio were still passed out when Ludwig came downstairs the next morning, and Ludwig fell still there and observed them with a lifted brow. Antonio was still on the couch where he had fallen, but Gilbert was right underneath him on the floor, the blanket shared between them, and Antonio's hand was dangling off, resting atop Gilbert's shoulder.

Fascinating.

Why? Antonio had been far handsier with Ludwig and it had never once made him think twice.

Oh dear—! Was he turning into Gilbert? Was he becoming the over-protective brother?

Ludwig shook it off, wandered into the kitchen, and maybe he really was overreacting because when Alfred came down he just glanced at them and walked straight by without a single second thought.

Still.

Gilbert and Antonio came by once or twice a week as they always had, and Ludwig watched them now when he hadn't before, scrutinizing and contemplating. Seeing Gilbert smiling and so happy and confident and calm was the most wonderful thing Ludwig could have ever hoped for, and Ludwig couldn't help but wonder how much of a part in that Antonio was playing.

Sometimes...

Even though he knew he was just being protective and possessive in a way, Ludwig wondered about them, he would admit. Was curious, because of the way they looked at each other. Could have just so easily been that Gilbert was unstable and attached to Antonio quickly because being isolated had made him that way, and Antonio was intimate by nature.

Wondering would be the extent of Ludwig's involvement, however, because he wasn't thoughtless enough to ever attempt to ask and make a fool of anyone. If Gilbert had something to tell him, then he eventually would. Even if the curiosity was killing him. Until then, Ludwig would mind his own business and enjoy Gilbert smiling. Didn't bring it up at all to even Alfred, because Alfred was nosy and tactless.

Was probably just in his head, spurred on by how easily both Antonio and Gilbert had accepted Ludwig for the way he was. Had just given him the wrong idea, was all.

He cast it aside after a while, because he had so many more things to worry about.

Being ostracized from the only community he had ever known.

Even though he was still supposedly 'welcome' in Rudolf's shop, Ludwig could have never shown his face there again, not after that, and so sent Gilbert in his stead, once a week, to procure whatever he needed. For anything else, he went to others stores, and some of them on Alfred's side of town, because being over there was somehow less embarrassing now.

How horrible that felt.

Treading into enemy territory, so to speak, because his own turf had decided he was no longer welcome. Often though, nowadays, he found himself wandering into the Chinese and Russian shops, because no one really seemed to even care that he was there at all. Would rather be pushed past and knocked aside like an invisible obstacle than be stared at.

Walking yet again, as he had so long ago, briskly and always glancing back.

If Alfred was no longer immune, then Ludwig knew well that his own safety had hit critical lows. Alfred was essentially the embodiment of the city itself; if he wasn't safe anymore, then there was really no hope left for Ludwig.

New Year's passed, much as Christmas had, sitting drunkenly in his living room with three of his favorite people. Felicia had come over that time, a few hours before midnight, but she hadn't stayed too long; Lovino had come to collect her. Ludwig had found that odd, as Felicia had always walked herself where she wanted. Odder yet was when she had kissed Ludwig's cheek in farewell outside on the step, and had said, tipsily, 'The door looks nice now, Ludovico! I'm happy.'

Ludwig tilted his head as Lovino dragged her away, and snorted to himself. Well, supposed a woman would notice details like that. Maybe Alfred had had a point—it had been very dirty.

Alfred was very loud and very excited as they watched the ball drop, and Alfred had grabbed Ludwig's arm, yanking him upright as if intending to kiss him, but Gilbert's high brow and leer stopped him short.

Ludwig just smiled, and hoped that this year wouldn't make him miss the last.

Hope; always fell short when he needed it most.

Didn't start off very well.

Seven days into the new year, Ludwig received the first altercation he had had with 'the other side' since Alfred had come along.

Had been so long that Ludwig had almost forgotten what it felt like, but it was a very unnerving sensation, coming home from work in the dark, trudging through snow, to see someone at his door.

And they weren't knocking.

Could smell the paint all the way from the sidewalk, and then came that rush of shock, anger, terror. He struggled a bit to see in the dark, but didn't really need to. Knew this scenario so well. Had been here so many times before, but always from safely behind the door. Had never been outside during the vandalism, and didn't know what to do.

Just walk away? Dart off and hide somewhere until they left? Couldn't just go slink over to the widow across the street anymore; she didn't open the door for him. No one here would help him now. Alone and isolated.

He knew the best course of action was to just leave, knew it, because that was what had always kept all of them from getting into more trouble than they wanted or needed.

But he didn't that time, not that time.

Ludwig rushed forward, and cried, in his harshest voice, " _Hey_! Get away from there!"

Had never dared to speak up any other time they had defaced his door, but Gilbert and Alfred had given Ludwig courage and confidence that he hadn't had before.

Didn't do him any good, of course.

The man just glanced over, so casually, and shook the can nonchalantly as he drawled, "Oh, hey. Look who it is."

Went right back to painting, and Ludwig, knowing he had no power, was forced to a halt, fists clenched and feet braced and chest tight. Unspeakably furious, and unable to act upon it.

Still, because he was so angry, Ludwig tried, one more time, "Get out of here!"

The man snorted, not even gracing Ludwig with a look that time, and just said, "Hey, sit still. Wait right there. I'm gonna spray-paint you, too, when I'm done here."

A pang of humiliation, and dumbly Ludwig looked down at his shirt, irritated that he had on clothes that he really liked today. Could feel his face blazing red.

Felt so stupid.

What could he do about it? Nothing.

Ludwig stood there, eyes on the sidewalk and lips pursed, unmoving and passive, because that was what he had always done in the face of aggression. Knew better than to make things worse than they needed to be. Would have held his chin up and glared defiantly, but he really couldn't stand the sight of his door being defaced like that. Stung too much.

He'd always been a spectator before, and so he was now. Standing here waiting, as he had always waited. His life was one long wait, for one thing or another, and this time he was waiting for that man to finish up and then make good on his word to paint Ludwig as he had the door. Could honestly say he would rather be pummeled again. This felt worse, somehow.

Had been a long, long time, since they'd come to his door.

Well. Not so long, huh? Alfred painting the damn door. Of course. Yeah. Sure, maybe in the very back of his mind Ludwig had been suspicious, had had doubts, had wondered, but it was so much easier to believe Alfred. Felt so much better to just believe him.

Had been lying to him for so long, and Ludwig had been utterly blind to it. Alfred had tried his best to shelter him, but that had long since passed.

Wished Alfred would have just told him the truth.

Sudden heavy footsteps were marching up, a flash of movement, and Ludwig lifted his head up with a gasp, because he was worried that Alfred had somehow come home early and was about to raise holy hell.

When Ludwig's eyes focused, however, he was actually concerned that he had been knocked unconscious and was just dreaming.

Not Alfred.

Luna Lovi had come barging up, out of absolutely nowhere, materializing from the night, and Ludwig watched in utter shock and astonishment as Lovino suddenly wrenched a hand in that man's hair, slammed his head right into the door, whirled him around, and pressed a gun into his temple.

The can of spray-paint clattered to the concrete below, the man's nose was bleeding, and Lovino had leaned in so close that their chests were pressing together, and Ludwig had honestly never heard Lovino's voice so low and deep and rumbling.

He wasn't screaming like he always had when he had been scaring men away from Felicia. Wasn't shouting, wasn't bellowing, wasn't loud and making aggressive gestures with his hands. Was very still, and very quiet, very focused, and that was honestly the only time in their history knowing each other that Ludwig could say he was actually truly _scared_ of Lovino. Felt that, in that moment, he was seeing Lovino being honestly dangerous.

His voice was so low Ludwig almost couldn't hear it at all.

"What are you doing out here, huh? You didn't ask my permission to come here. This is my neighborhood. Who are you? Huh? Did you ask my permission to come here? Did you ask _me_ if you could touch this door? Huh? What are you doing here?"

No answer was given nor was it expected; Lovino's fist had dropped and he had instead pressed his thick forearm into the man's throat, choking him, and there was no possible way he could have spoken at all.

Ludwig actually shivered a little at the sound of Lovino's voice. Had never heard him murmur like that.

...was this _happening_?

It was one of the most surreal moments of Ludwig's life, honest to god it was, being behind Luna Lovi instead of in front of him.

Shocked, absolutely and completely shocked.

And yet, somehow, underneath it all, Ludwig felt strangely...devastated. How sad, how pitiful, how unfair, that suddenly the only person that would stand up for them now was a man that had once shoved a gun in Ludwig's head. That they were so ostracized and so taboo that even people that had once been supportive had turned.

The Germans wouldn't watch out for Ludwig anymore, because of his relationship with Alfred, and so it was _Lovino_ , of all people, that had come forward. Lovino, who had hated Germans as much as Alfred's father had, who had detested Ludwig from the first time they had crossed paths, Lovino, who had sworn that Ludwig would never once be a part of Felicia's life.

Lovino came to Ludwig's aid when old friends had turned aside.

Sad.

The only people they had left were those precious few friends. The world have turned against them. Nowhere to go, and no one to turn to. No way out of it, and no way back. Couldn't just make everyone forget, and sometimes Ludwig wondered what really upset everyone more; that they were both men, or that Ludwig was German and Alfred was not. Maybe both of those things together made them more of a target than they would have been had it just been one or the other.

Honestly, Ludwig was truly amazed that he hadn't yet been arrested and deported. Got worse every day, and Ludwig wondered if he should start preparing himself for that possibility. Seemed like such a real fear, when the only person here now to help him was that deadly quiet Lovino.

A long, rather terrifying stare, Lovino's forearm still keeping the man from breathing, and then with words Ludwig couldn't hear, Lovino grabbed the man by the shirt and quite literally threw him aside. He fell, picked himself quickly up and began his mad dash away as Lovino kept the gun on him, and Ludwig was fairly certain that _that_ man would never come over into this side again.

Didn't mean he would be the last.

Lovino spat a curse at the man's back as he vanished, put his gun back in his belt, and then turned around to stomp over to Ludwig. He fell short a good distance away, staring Ludwig down as he always had, reaching up to smooth back strands of hair that had fallen loose in his scuffle.

Ludwig just stood there, staring back at him, and knew he was slumped, knew he must have looked so miserable then. Hell, thought he saw a flash of pity on Lovino's face.

Pathetic, he really was. None of this seemed right.

Wondered why Lovino was doing this, suddenly. Wondered if it had been Felicia or Alice that had forced his hand, had demanded it of him. They surely had to have been whispering favors to Lovino for a while now, but Lovino had never once lifted his hand until that moment.

Wondered what had changed.

A long, horrible silence, as Lovino scrutinized him, and then Lovino took one step forward, putting them within arm's reach of each other, and Ludwig just couldn't seem to pick up his chin. Had been so long since he had felt so defeated.

Lovino opened his mouth, stopped short, crinkled his brow, and suddenly looked very awkward and very uncomfortable. All the same, after a long struggle, Lovino finally found his voice long enough to utter, in a low rumble, "Anyone bothers you from now on, you tell me. Got it?"

Ludwig just stared at Lovino, still so slumped, and for whatever reason he just wanted to huddle up somewhere and cry.

Surely Lovino saw that.

Lovino looked so uneasy then, so agitated, and when Ludwig didn't say anything, Lovino finally gave a gruff exhale of air and stepped forward again, punching Ludwig on the shoulder. Not quite so hard.

"You bastard," Lovino said, holding Ludwig's gaze, "If you would just fight back for once, it wouldn't be so bad. Why can't you ever just fight back? I never got it."

Ludwig just shrugged a shoulder, because he didn't know what to say.

Somehow, Lovino seemed more uncomfortable than anything that Ludwig wasn't speaking to him.

"You're not even gonna tell me if someone bothers you, are you?"

Silence.

Because he wouldn't, he really wouldn't.

Lovino knew it, too, and suddenly he wrenched his huge hand up in Ludwig's collar, gave him a throttle, and they were chest to chest, Lovino's nose nearly bumping into his own as he kept on trying to stare Ludwig down into the dirt.

Didn't need to try—Ludwig was already there, thanks.

A low hiss.

"That wasn't a request. Unless you want me to start following you everywhere, you tell me. Tell me, or I swear, I'm gonna get your brother to tell me instead. And we both know you don't want him knowing."

A jolt of adrenaline, as Lovino's fist threatened to strangle the life out of him.

Couldn't really argue with that, and didn't know what to do, because he absolutely didn't want Gilbert to know about any of this, none of it, because Gilbert was a loose cannon and even Lovino knew that.

What could he do?

Finally, at last, Ludwig conceded with a deep, "Alright."

Lovino let him go, and stepped back.

With that, apparently satisfied, Lovino turned on his heel and started walking off.

Ludwig found his voice enough to called, "Lovino."

Lovino stopped, and looked back.

"Why are you doing this?"

A long, stiff silence, as Lovino stared rather blankly at him, and then, after a look around, Lovino scoffed and grimaced. Looked almost angry, suddenly, hands in his pockets and chin held up. When he spoke at last, his voice was guttural. Hardly a whisper.

"Felicia came to see you a few weeks ago. You weren't home. She saw what was written on your door. She cried all night. I couldn't get her to stop crying, and I— I promised that no one would ever make her cry. She asked me to keep an eye on you. So. That's why. I ain't doin' it for _you_. I'm doin' it for her. That's why you better tell me, or else."

An awful pang of hurt and shame.

Hadn't ever wanted that, hadn't ever wanted Felicia to cry. Not her. Would have gone to the moon and back to keep her happy.

Lovino had started walking off again, and once more Ludwig called, "Lovino.'

Once more, Lovino stopped, and turned back.

"Tell her— Please, tell her that I'm _sorry_."

So sorry, that that had ever happened, that she had ever felt that way, that she had ever been so upset. Felt like he was the one about to cry, as his eyes stung and his throat clutched up. His worst nightmare, he swore it, Felicia crying like that.

Lovino stared at him, long and hard, and Ludwig thought that maybe his low brow had come up, just a little bit.

Snow began to fall again.

Eventually, Lovino just lowered his chin a little, snow caught in his lashes, and said, simply, "No. I'll tell her you said 'thanks'."

Understood. So she wouldn't cry more.

Lovino gave him a final look-over, a final judging, and then walked away.

When he was gone, Ludwig went up to his door, and felt exhausted. Damn. Had almost forgotten how bad this felt. The man hadn't had a chance to finish, but it was very clear what he had intended to write, another word that Ludwig had had unfortunately added to his repertoire of slurs in these past years.

Wondered what Alfred had painted over.

Was there enough paint left over for one more erasure?

Meant to go and find out, but found himself immobilized.

That awful image in his head of Felicia bursting into tears in front of this door. Couldn't take it.

Played on a loop.

He was still staring at the door when Alfred came back, and as much as that horrible vision in his head of Felicia, he wished to god he had never seen that look on Alfred's face then, as he realized that more of his lies had come to light.

Hands on his shoulders, as Alfred kissed the back of his neck briefly and proceeded to shove Ludwig forcefully through the door and inside. Alfred spied the can lying there at the last second, snatched it up, and shut the door.

He pushed Ludwig down into the kitchen chair, can held yet, and as Alfred stared at it as if in a daze, he suddenly asked, almost hopefully, "Did you— Did you scare 'em off?"

Ludwig held his chin in his palm and stared at the wall, and didn't respond. Felt rather out in space.

Alfred paced around for a while, as if lost, and then finally sat down in front of Ludwig, looking quite defeated in some way.

The first thing Ludwig said, when his senses came back, was, "You lied to me."

Again.

Seemed rather silly by then to even bother pointing it out, but didn't know what else to say.

Alfred's eyes were downcast, hands clasped there upon the table, and there was a long, heavy silence, before Alfred finally rumbled, gruffly, "Sorry."

Hadn't really wanted an apology, because Alfred likely didn't really mean it, wasn't really sorry, and that was because he didn't need to be. Alfred's lies hadn't been malicious, had had good intent, and Ludwig was aware of that, even if it stung a bit. Wished that Alfred had told him the truth, but at the same time wished that he still didn't know. Was so much happier believing Alfred's lies.

And really, was it Alfred's fault for lying or Ludwig's fault for being dumb enough to believe it?

They spoke no more, and it was Alfred who went to the closet and pulled out the little can of paint. Ludwig didn't go out, and didn't know if there was enough left to fix it. Almost didn't care. He went upstairs as Alfred painted, took a shower, and went to bed, burrowing under the blanket and feeling far too much like he had just gone right back where he had come from.

Must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

He had nearly drifted off by the time Alfred came to bed much later.

More silence.

Better that way, sometimes, and Ludwig stared at the wall as time passed.

Somewhere, later into the night, an awful thought started creeping into Ludwig's head, and he couldn't get rid of it. That thought.

They lied there, Alfred's arm around him and face buried in his hair, and Ludwig didn't even know if Alfred was still awake when he finally breathed, hours later and out of nowhere, "If I get deported, will you look after Gilbert for me?"

That horrible thought of leaving Gilbert behind, of finding him only to lose him again. Deportation wasn't a foreign thought by any means, but now suddenly it was Ludwig who could have been the one shipped out instead of Gilbert, with one wrong move.

A sharp inhale, and the arm around him tightened its grip to the point of being uncomfortable.

Alfred's voice was rough from creeping sleep as he grunted, sternly, "You're not getting deported."

Saying it didn't mean it would be so, and men 'like them' were arrested all the time. Imprisoned. Ludwig wouldn't be imprisoned, because being arrested would mean immediate deportation, and maybe Alfred was still pretending. Fooling himself. Ludwig had pretended, too, and understood the need to push something dreary out of focus, but it crept on him more and more, that awful ache of dread. Of being sent home and having to leave the men he loved behind.

Gilbert.

So Ludwig said, softly, "Just make sure he doesn't get into trouble. It's not your responsibility, I know, but—"

"Shut up," Alfred snapped, his voice deeper and thicker and trembling, and Ludwig regretted it, but just wanted to know that Gilbert would be kept in line, would still be held accountable. Needed that structure of family.

Gilbert needed someone to chide him.

He didn't press Alfred further that night, letting him cool off, and put it on the list of things to do. Alfred owed them nothing, he knew that, but Alfred was the only person Ludwig trusted, and liked to think that he could at least get Alfred to promise to check in on Gilbert once a week or so. If only that. Just that. Antonio would take care of him the rest of the time.

Ludwig would just languish across the sea.

He closed his eyes, tried to go to sleep to get one more miserable day over with, and a long while later, when Alfred's breathing had steadied, there was a soft whisper.

"If it ever happened...I'd follow you. I won't leave you alone."

Awe.

It didn't matter if that was more of Alfred's pretending, his lying, his way of keeping himself moving forward. Didn't care, he really didn't, and he squirmed around in Alfred's arms, threw his own around Alfred's neck, pushed their foreheads together, and clung to him.

Woke up for the first time that night.

Just hated that it had to be to the sight of that miserable looking Alfred, and in the dim light Ludwig could see the water in his eyes.

Again, Ludwig opened his mouth, and this time he had managed to utter, "I really..."

Failure.

Tried so hard, so hard, and all Ludwig managed at last was, "I don't care where I am, if we're together."

Alfred pressed his head into Ludwig's neck and didn't speak.

That was the closest Ludwig had come to gathering the strength to utter those words at long last to Alfred. To say 'I love you'. He choked, couldn't complete the task, failed in the end, but he felt that he was drawing closer and closer every day to finding his voice. Had been so close that time, he had. So close. Just one more push, one more try, and he would have it.

So close.

One day, he would say it.

* * *

Not so long ago, Ludwig had picked himself up out of the dirt and said, 'Not yet.' And then again, and then again, and again. Had been harder and harder each time, and then, when Ludwig had failed to pull himself up, Alfred had hauled him forcibly upright.

Ludwig looked around now and realized that he was close to being back in that loop. They pushed him down, and he picked himself back up. When he couldn't do it alone, Alfred came to his rescue.

For Alfred, though, Ludwig usually found the strength to find his own footing.

Had come too far to lose now. Wouldn't budge. Wouldn't fold. Wouldn't back down, and he wouldn't give up.

Winter was steadily fading. Spring was close.

Ludwig weathered this new storm as he had all of the others, and in some way it truly wasn't anything new. It was the same old thing; merely the reason had changed.

This time, when Ludwig walked along and someone sent him a dirty look, it wasn't because he was German; it was because he was 'funny'. When he went down the sidewalk close to home and a patrol car came sliding up next to him, the window rolling down and the police officer asking him what he was up to, it wasn't because he was an immigrant; it was because he was 'lewd'. When he went into a store now and was promptly asked to leave, it wasn't because he was a 'Nazi'; he was just 'improper'.

Looking over his shoulder and realizing that he was being followed at a distance.

Funny how everything was exactly the same and yet so different.

Missed being able to go on walks with Alfred, but it wasn't safe. They went on their various errands at different times, and there were no more strolls in the park. No more waiting for it to rain so that Alfred would sling his jacket over Ludwig's shoulders. Of all things, Ludwig could say he missed that the most.

Had to walk alone now, and yet even that was hazardous, because there was no backup should something go awry. So far, in that aspect, Ludwig was yet fortunate. Had been followed numerous times, but nothing had ever come of it except fear.

Ludwig had more wariness now of seeing a police officer than anyone else, with that shadow of deportation always looming over him. That was why they had to walk alone now, wasn't it, because impulsive Alfred couldn't be entirely trusted not to reach out and touch Ludwig, and had there been the wrong cop there at the wrong time, it could have so easily been over.

Public indecency. Had Alfred's name written all over it.

Ludwig was used to it, he really was, and so it wasn't truly devastating. What hurt Ludwig the most, more than anything else, was that Alfred was now experiencing what that was like, and although Ludwig had certainly once wished that upon him that was no longer the case. Seeing proud, bold, confident Alfred being thrown down to Ludwig's level was painful.

Hated seeing that awful look on his face.

On top of that, now there was the solitude again.

Alfred was gone so _much_ lately, because his father was apparently getting worse.

Ludwig, as always, was patient with him, but hated him being gone because it was rather frightening in those moments that he was alone.

Well—not completely alone.

Ludwig looked around frequently now, paranoid as he was, and noticed that he often saw Lovino's face, here and there. Certainly wasn't a full-time bodyguard by any means, but Ludwig saw him at least twice a week, as if he were checking in because Ludwig hadn't come crying to him yet. Lovino didn't trust him to report dutifully as requested, no doubt, and was coming by to observe. Sometimes Lovino followed him at a distance. Sometimes he just looked Ludwig up and down and then walked away. Sometimes Lovino crept up so close behind him that Ludwig would have crashed into him if he had turned briskly around.

Likely, Lovino's silent presence was the reason Ludwig was followed but never accosted.

Lovino had spent years asserting his dominance over this part of the city, as best he could, and even if no one took Lovino all that seriously, no one really wanted to mess with a man carrying a gun. Lovino pretended to be bigger than he was, more important, but occasionally that was enough to deter people.

Felicia had no doubt intended for Lovino to make this a daily habit, but Lovino wasn't quite that easily bent. Couldn't be bothered to check on Ludwig every day, although he probably lied to Felicia and claimed that he did.

Sometimes, it was Ludwig who found Lovino, by accident, arm in arm with Alice and being led along like a dog.

Surreal still, no matter how many times he saw Lovino.

How different the world truly was now!

It wasn't all bad. His favorite instance of seeing Lovino, so far, had been when Felicia had come by to visit. Lovino must have followed her, as protective as he was and given the new harassment, and when Ludwig went outside with Felicia clinging to his arm, he saw Lovino lurking around the corner, arms crossed and brow low.

Felicia saw him, too, and the look she sent him was one Ludwig hadn't seen.

Was so used to seeing them fight, arguing constantly, and so to see Felicia send Lovino that adoring look, and to see Lovino in turn lift his chin, face much softer and brow high, nearly smiling, was quite entrancing.

Ludwig's favorite moment with them.

Felicia's happiness brought Ludwig his own, and when Lovino's eyes fell on Ludwig, it was clear enough that he felt the same, and that his little sister was happy was enough for him.

The first time, perhaps, that Ludwig and Lovino had ever understood each other.

Lovino tailed them for their entire walk, and when it was time to say goodbye for the day, Ludwig leaned down, Felicia grabbed him around the neck, and with some swift maneuvering he had picked her up and had her up on his shoulders like a little kid would ride about on their father. He delivered her neatly to Lovino as she squealed and clung to his neck, and when she slid down and Ludwig stood up straight, Lovino was actually smiling. Had never seen that before, and Ludwig could actually say that Lovino was rather handsome when he smiled. Almost had the look of Felicia about him. Must have been on a different planet. The only explanation for any of this.

Ludwig didn't know if he had done it to make Felicia smile or to get that very reaction from Lovino, but accomplished both ends.

Felt nice to see _them_ happy, even if it wasn't as easy for him to be.

Antonio was the only one nowadays that seemed oblivious to their situation, Gilbert a bit less so but certainly not fully in the loop. As much as Alfred had lied to Ludwig, Ludwig lied to them, because there was absolutely no point in dragging them down. All they knew, so far, was that Ludwig wasn't really welcome in the German community. Didn't need to know more than that.

That had infuriated Gilbert enough as it was. God knew Gilbert certainly didn't need to know about slurs on his doors and nosy police officers and body checks in the street. Gilbert was volatile enough. Didn't ever want to set him off.

Didn't need to, because other people did that quite well enough on their own.

One day, Gilbert had set off to the shop with a list of Ludwig's needs, but had come back looking very hassled and very agitated, throwing the bags on the kitchen table and keeping quiet.

Odd.

Gilbert was shifting his weight back and forth, looked a little abashed and maybe a little guilty, and Ludwig stared at him quite intently until Gilbert finally cracked. With a look around, a grimace, and a scratch of his hair, Gilbert finally grumbled, weakly, "So, Lutz! Uh—don't think I can run anymore shopping errands for ya."

A surge of dread.

Immediately, Ludwig asked, thinly, "What did you do?"

Gilbert waved his hand in the air, trying to appear casual, and his voice was low and deep when he said, "Well, I mighta sorta, uh, got into it with the owner."

Ludwig's brow came down, and he could only imagine what Rudolf had done to earn Gilbert's wrath.

Didn't get to ask, because Gilbert quickly added, in an ever deeper tone, "There's a possibility that I mighta punched him. I may or may not be allowed back in the store."

"Oh, for god's sake, _Gilbert_!" Ludwig cried, as Gilbert shuffled about, and he hung his head shortly after when it started pounding.

They may have turned against him, but those people had still taken him in in his time of need.

A muttered, "Sorry."

Ludwig buried his face in his hands, and after a moment the chair scraped the tile as Gilbert plopped down beside of him and threw an arm over his shoulder.

A louder, more sincere, "I'm sorry. I really am. I just got so mad."

Ludwig lowered his palms, looked over at Gilbert, and asked, "What did he do?"

A hesitation, as Gilbert shifted yet so irritably, and he appeared quite angry when he said, testily, "He asked me how you were."

Ludwig's brow crinkled ever lower, his lips pursed, and the look he sent Gilbert then would have burnt up anyone else. Of all things to get so worked up over! Had to be such a simple question.

Before Ludwig could say anything, Gilbert went off, clenching Ludwig with one arm as his other hand gestured angrily, and his voice was loud when he added, "How stupid is that? How the hell can he stand there and look me in the eye and ask how you are? Huh? What does he care? They're the ones who said you weren't welcome, so where do they get off asking me how you are? Huh? Try explain' that one to me, 'cause I don't get it. It made me so mad, because he doesn't fuckin' care, none of them do. If they did, they wouldn't be doing this. I wasn't gonna let him ask me that without telling him what was what. Who the hell do they think they are?"

Ludwig was still under Gilbert's arm as he ranted, and well...

Couldn't ever be angry with Gilbert, and to be fair, Gilbert did have a bit of a point. The community had shunned Ludwig, and it was more than a bit hurtful to have one of them inquiring about how Ludwig was doing when they had been the ones to throw him aside. Any one of them could have called, could have knocked on the door, if they really wanted to know how he was doing.

Never did.

They didn't care.

Ludwig's only real sentinel in this neighborhood now was Lovino, pitiful as it was. No one else cared about him.

Time passed, oblivious of Ludwig's hurdles.

The snows melted. Spring was high.

An unexpected surprise came along with the first blooming of the flowers.

A knock on the door.

The knock itself didn't surprise Ludwig until he actually opened up.

He had thought in some part of his mind that it was Rudolf, maybe, coming to check on him out of guilt after Gilbert's punch.

But no.

The man that stood on the other side was one it took him a good minute to recognize, and Ludwig had been immediately terrified because he realized that he had opened the door so thoughtlessly with the way their lives were now. So dangerous, so stupid—why had he done that?

Fortunately, for once Ludwig's luck held out.

Recognized the man shortly after, if only vaguely.

Before Ludwig could actually open his mouth and say anything, however, the man beat him to it.

"I'm Francis," he finally said, and he made a rather extravagant point of holding out his hand. "I don't think we were properly introduced last time."

Ah, yes, that was it! Alfred's uncle.

Ludwig opened his mouth, realized he had absolutely no clue as to what to say, and so just took the offered hand and gave it a good shake. Felt rather dumbfounded if he were honest, and Alfred's uncle must have known that, if only from the look on Ludwig's face.

"Apologies," he said, so very casually, "I was waiting and waiting for Alfred to bring you over so I could meet you, but he was taking too long. I figured I should just come over and visit for myself."

Didn't know what to do, so Ludwig just held open the door politely and said, at last, "Come in."

Alfred's uncle accepted the invitation, and Ludwig was alarmingly close to feeling nauseous when he stepped inside. That awful pressure of meeting your significant other's family for the first time, after they had made it clear they didn't really want much to do with you.

Why had he come?

Ludwig waved his hand to the kitchen table, Alfred's uncle sat, Ludwig followed suit, and there was a very long silence as they stared at each other. Incredibly awkward, very strange, and Ludwig was very quick to avert his eyes.

What was he supposed to say?

Hoped, above all else, that he didn't actually throw up, the way his stomach was twisting.

Ludwig stood up very abruptly, and when he started making coffee, Alfred's uncle finally spoke up.

"So, what's your name? I don't think I ever caught it."

"Ludwig."

His voice had cracked, from his anxiety, and he hoped Francis hadn't noticed.

A noise of contemplation.

When Ludwig turned around, leaning against the counter, arms crossed nervously and glancing at Francis in intervals, he could see that he was being very intensely observed. He shifted his weight, knowing full well that he was being judged, and felt horrifically embarrassed for whatever reason. Perhaps Francis had come by to see if Ludwig was up to his standards for his all-American brat of a nephew, and he was very likely going to be disappointed.

Handsome, charming Alfred was far out of Ludwig's league, and yet here they were.

When Ludwig could keep his eyes on Francis just long enough, though, he could very easily glimpse Alfred there upon his face. Most noticeably in his eyes and chin. Certainly related.

But Francis wasn't American, that was easy enough to tell, and Alfred hadn't ever offered any information about his family at all.

When the coffee was finished, Ludwig poured two mugs and as he sat back down, he gathered the courage to ask, if only to find some common ground, "Where are you from?"

The knowing lift of Francis' brow.

"France."

"Oh."

Failure.

Great. Even more awkward. Easy to sit there and take it all in, and realize that Alfred had not only a war hero father, but an uncle from France. Had grown up with English Alice. No wonder Alfred had hated them all so much. Supposed it had been the perfect storm, really. The sacred trinity. Did Alfred have a Russian cousin somewhere else in the family tree? Would have been perfection, really.

No common ground there at all.

Ludwig stared down into his coffee, and he must have looked quite as miserable as he felt, because Francis suddenly snorted.

His voice was deeper and friendlier when he said, helpfully, "Don't tell me this is how quiet you are around Alfred? No one this quiet could ever put up with him, and I know for sure you don't let him walk all over you. I won't have it!"

A tease, and a bold one, but it did the job well, and Ludwig managed to lift his eyes and smile, just a little.

His heart hammered.

Francis, seeing he was making headway, added, "I used to see you walking all the time. Alfred and I. He always looked so nervous whenever you were there. I thought maybe he was afraid of you. I was glad that someone was keeping him in line."

Ha. So, Ludwig hadn't been the only one to notice Alfred's reluctance to be around him all those years. Comforting.

Bolstered a little, the nausea died down a bit, and Ludwig found his voice long enough to say, "Sir, no one can keep Alfred in line."

A short hesitation, perhaps as Francis struggled to sort out Ludwig's accent, and then he actually laughed, quite loudly.

"That's spot on!"

Whew.

So far, so good.

After a short silence, Ludwig asked, so tentatively, "So. You don't... It's alright with you? Me? Us, I mean..."

He foundered, lost his nerve and his voice, and averted his eyes yet again.

A hesitation, and an airy snort.

"It's...an adjustment. I'm still a bit shocked, but I'm working on it. I'm trying. Meeting you was the first step, really. I am sorry, about the last time. I didn't mean to make you feel that way."

"It's alright," Ludwig quickly offered. "It was nothing new. It didn't bother me."

That was true, but Francis' brow came down and his lips pushed out, as if that were distasteful somehow.

Another moment of thought, and Francis said, far more honestly, "It's been made apparent to me that Alfred isn't going to choose anyone over you. So, if I want to stay in his life, I better get used to you. I love my nephew, I really do. No matter what. I may not... Well. He's the only family I have. I'll do anything for him. All I can really do is get to know you, I suppose."

Naturally. It wasn't easy to throw away the last bit of family, no matter what, and so even if Francis didn't approve by any means he would still be civil and tolerable, and that was all Ludwig could have ever hoped or asked for.

It was a lot easier after that.

Francis asked, "So! Do you have family here?"

Just like that, Ludwig found his confidence, his voice, and started talking at last. Ludwig, after all, wouldn't waste the chance to brag about Gilbert. Francis seemed a bit relieved, and they just sat there at the table for a good long while, chatting with each other.

And when Alfred came home hours later and walked through the door, when he saw Ludwig sitting at that table with Francis, the smile on his face could have easily burnt up the sun for its brightness.

Francis' smile was far softer, subdued and calm, and Ludwig just enjoyed looking back and forth between them to pick out similarities.

Alfred yanked out a chair, flipped it around, straddling it and resting his folded arms atop it to gawk at them, and happily inserted himself into the conversation. Another surreal moment in time, one that Ludwig had never expected but was grateful for.

When Francis left late at night, Alfred hugged him so long that Francis had to physically disengage himself in order to leave.

Alfred was in the clouds for the rest of the night.

He wasn't the only one.

Francis had boosted Ludwig's confidence, had helped him regain some semblance of worth, had uplifted Ludwig just enough for him to see above the shadows, however briefly. Having someone on Alfred's end offer Ludwig words of encouragement was what he needed, in the end, to do what he had been trying to do for months.

That night, as Alfred's lied atop him and rested, Ludwig pressed his forehead into Alfred's, gathered up his courage, and finally, at long last, said it.

"I love you."

The first time he had ever said it, and possibly the last, because saying it then had nearly made him pass out, he swore it, he was so dizzy and terrified.

Oh, but Alfred's beautiful expression, one Ludwig had never seen, as Alfred's eyes ran over his face. Worth the anxiety.

Could have been elation, that look, potent and undiluted.

The only time Ludwig ever said it.

Once was enough.

* * *

'I guess I was wrong.'

The first words Francis had said to Alfred, when they had come face to face after that night.

Alfred had gone to Francis' house the very next day, too excited to wait much longer. Had been something he had never seen coming, and it was the kind of support and happiness and confidence he really needed then, as his imaginary world kept on collapsing.

Needed Francis more than he needed anyone.

Francis had barely opened the door when Alfred barged inside and corralled him, crying, "So what do you think, huh?"

Francis fell back, startled, as Alfred threw an arm over his shoulders and all but strangled him.

Was far too riled up to be calm, and Francis squirmed, trying very hard to get out of Alfred's arms. Alfred let him go, but Francis was teasing him, perhaps, because he just lifted his chin, looked Alfred up and down, and walked silently into the kitchen.

Alfred chased after him, trying to get a response, but Francis seemed keen to draw out the suspense.

"Well?" Alfred asked, eagerly, circling Francis to force him still. "What do you think? Huh? Don't you— Don't you like him? You finally met him. What do you think?"

Francis finally sat down, Alfred dragging a chair over and practically sitting atop him, and he rolled his shoulders up and down as he looked Alfred in the eye.

A long, quiet stare.

Alfred was fidgeting, painfully so.

Sure could be a jerk when he wanted to, Francis, and maybe he was who Alfred had gotten that trait from all along.

"Can't you talk?" Alfred pressed, as Francis' blank face threatened to crack. "Say something! What do you think? You like him? Huh?"

A barely suppressed smirk.

"Well," Francis finally began. "I guess I was wrong. You really do care for each other, don't you?"

Obviously.

Not what he was asking, and Alfred was close to combusting when he pressed, "Do you like him or not, man? Come on! I need to know. He's great, right? Don't you like him?"

Please, just like him. Needed Francis to like Ludwig, needed him to get it through his head at last that Alfred wasn't going to just let Ludwig go and be 'normal'. Needed Francis to back him, to encourage him, needed Francis to just tell him, if nothing else, that he didn't hate Ludwig.

Needed Francis to give Alfred his blessing, if only by not detesting the man Alfred was with.

Francis kept on staring at him, and then, finally, said, "Well, Alfred. I think he's a nice guy. Nicer than I thought, actually. I didn't expect that."

Yeah, the first impression of Ludwig was absolutely the wrong one. Gentle and sweet as could be. Nothing mean about him, no matter how stern and harsh he could seem. Had never seen a face so entirely misleading as the one Ludwig had.

Eager and anxious, Alfred prodded, "Yeah?"

Francis smiled, and said, a bit too cheerfully, "He's really done a number on you, hasn't he?"

More than that—Alfred would have set the world on fire if Ludwig had asked him to.

He nodded, though, and Francis seemed to smile a bit more serenely. A lower voice.

"I know we sort of talked about this, in a way. But, humor me. I just want to hear you say it. I want to know, once and for all : are you really in love?"

Once upon a time, that question would have mortified him.

Not anymore.

And so he answered, without even a hesitation, "Yeah. I am."

Before Francis could say anything else, Alfred's patience broke, and he was unable to keep it in any longer.

"Please! Tell me what you think. Do you like him or not? Huh? Do you like him? He's such a nice guy, if you give him a chance. If you just get to know him, I know you'll like him. Please, just get to know him. We're not... I mean, I wouldn't..."

He trailed off, because he didn't know how to word what he really wanted to say.

What could he really say?

'We're not normal, and I'm _sorry_ about it, but we're not bad people, so please just give us a chance?'

Pitiful.

Alfred felt so damn heavy, suddenly, when he hung his head. Exhausted, out of nowhere. Wanted Francis to be someone he could go to for comfort and support as the world shunned him.

Francis was still staring at him, and then he asked, "Does he make you happy?"

Looking back up, Alfred said, "Yeah," and he was almost alarmed at how thick his voice had become. Cracking. Sounded like he was about to start crying, and that sure as hell wasn't going to happen because he had already made a fool of himself in front of Ludwig. "Yeah, he does, more than anything. I just... I just want him to be there, wherever I am. If he... I don't know what I'd do, if he ever left. Even if you don't really like it, I just... I'd like for you to still be there."

Without batting an eye, Francis said, "I've always been here."

Well—yeah. He had. They butted heads a lot, but Francis really had always been there. It was Alfred who frequently walked out, not Francis.

Alfred looked away, and Francis sighed.

Seemed to be deep in thought.

Francis finally lifted his head, gave a snort, seemed to finally and completely concede to Alfred, and said, "Well, then. Guess that's that. Maybe he's good for you. I did tell you a long time ago that you were welcome to bring him over. That still stands."

Happiness, and above all else an odd sense of justification that he hadn't really earned.

Francis' acceptance meant more than the world's.

Francis tried to tease him a little, and said, "He's too quiet, though. You better shut up sometimes and let him get a word in."

Alfred laughed, and relaxed.

Hope.

"I guess the only thing left to conclude is what you're going to do with your father. I hope that's something you're thinking about. With everything you tell me. I do wonder, though... Tell me—are you planning on moving _him_ into your father's house later on, when... Well, you know."

Had thought about it.

Alfred looked around a bit, and then said, "I was thinking about it, but— I just really wanna get outta here. When it's all over and done with, I just want to try to get out of the city. Go where no one knows us. You know? Start over."

Francis' thoughtful look.

Then, a low, "Good. What I had rather hoped for. I'd worry less that way, I think." A stern look, and Francis was quick to add, "But not _too_ far! Don't you go too far. You can't get away from me that easily."

Relief.

He hugged Francis before parting ways with him that night, and Francis whispered, "We don't always have to agree on everything, but I still love you. Try not to cut me out if I say something you don't like one day. Mm?"

A hint of shame.

Alfred was impulsive, he knew, so quick to anger, so irrational at times. Acted before thinking. Didn't mean to be all or nothing, really. It was just easier to cast something aside that didn't align with his own thoughts, rather than try to see something from someone else's perspective. Had walked out on Francis that night and hadn't gone back, because Francis had unintentionally hurt his feelings. Hadn't tried to work it out, and had chosen to ignore instead.

Not the best reaction, when he knew that Francis loved him, and he loved Francis.

Awkwardly, Alfred murmured back, "I won't. I'm working on it."

"Likewise," was the response, and they put it behind them with a clap of their hands.

Alfred went back home that night feeling quite on top of the world.

Francis was giving Ludwig a chance, and Ludwig had told Alfred at long last that he loved him.

Felt as if he had reached the summit in some way, his prime. Everything he had wanted.

The downside to reaching that summit, of course, was that from there everything could only go back down.

A warm spring day in April.

That time, when Alfred went home, his father wasn't there.

A rush of panic.

He tore the house apart looking for the old man, ran outside and down the neighborhood street. No sight of him, and all he could think of to do was to dart back in, pick up the phone and call Francis.

When Francis picked up, Alfred gave him no time to speak, blurting, "Is my dad over there?"

An odd, _"No? What's wrong?"_

Alfred hung up, and ran back out.

Where the hell had he gone? What had he gotten into? Was in no state to be wandering about, especially with a damn gun, half-dazed as he was.

Alfred skidded through the streets, lifting himself on his toes to look over the crowds, ran around aimlessly, hoping he would just run into the old man. Didn't find him anywhere close to home, and instead turned tail and made towards Francis', hoping that his father had just been on his way there. Looked all over, and didn't see him. He turned back again, and this time made towards Alice's. He knocked on her door; she answered, but his father wasn't there.

He darted off, ignoring her questions, and crept much more cautiously towards the homes of his former 'friends'. No go. Nothing.

Where could he have gone?

Where else—

A jolt of panic, adrenaline, terror, and Alfred changed direction once more and jogged back towards Ludwig's. Panting furiously and stopping from time to time to catch his breath, he searched the streets, praying that the old man hadn't come down this way to cause more trouble.

But he had come down this way, and when Alfred spotted his father at last, ambling slowly and clumsily down the street, he ran over to him so fast that he swore both of his feet came off of the ground at once. Too damn heavy to run like that, and was entirely winded by the time he skidded up to his father, grabbing him from behind and dragging him over.

Not a damn moment too soon, either, because Alfred knew that he had been heading to that shop in which Ludwig had worked the Christmas before last, the one his father had already caused damage to.

Had almost been in their sights, almost, and would have dreaded that encounter because those people had already cast Ludwig out because of this very reason.

He dragged his father across the street and back out of sight, and hissed, furiously, "Dad! What are you doing out here?"

That time, though, it didn't seem as if the old man was out for malicious purposes; didn't have that look on his face that Alfred knew so well. Just looked rather pleased, almost, and it was clear why when he said, "I was looking for you. I knew you'd be down here."

Huh. Rather clear-headed, to have been able to remember Alfred's time standing in front of that window when he could barely recognize Alfred these days.

He glanced down, but saw no gun on his father.

Relief.

"Come on. Let's go home. Don't come back out here, alright?"

His father just lifted his chin, and replied, "You're never home anymore."

Alfred shook his head, and when they had reached the house, his father was still alert, still calm, and Alfred stayed, but only because he didn't want the old man going back out there searching for him. Hoped that no one there had seen him. Would have made everything worse for Ludwig.

Alfred may have felt trapped, sitting there with his father, and yet, in spite of everything, Alfred was yet aware that it could have been so much worse. They were luckier than some people. The majority of the world may have turned against them, but they had friends yet, and such good ones. More than a lot of people could say.

There were men out there far worse off than they, with no backup and no one there to turn to.

Alice kept Alfred safe on their end, and Lovino kept Ludwig safe on the other. Matthew and Felicia were always encouraging and there to boost morale. Francis was there to keep Alfred's confidence high. Gilbert was there to bring out Ludwig's courage. Antonio was always ready to back them up.

All they needed.

All of these bumps in the road were only that, and wouldn't stop them.

April turned to May.

Steadily, the excitement seemed to die down. Alfred and Ludwig, such a topic of endless discussion, such a scandal, finally trickled away. The city had a short memory span, when it never slept.

No one bothered them much anymore, except for the odd looks. Things calmed. After a while, everyone just seemed to get bored with the whole thing. They moved on to more exciting things, and there was a general sense of peace. Still knew better than to push their luck of course and go needlessly into unfriendly territory, knew better than to be audacious, but it was calm. No one came to their door, no one cornered Alfred on the street, and no one followed Ludwig. The cops had lost interest as much as everyone else.

The city was always moving, always exciting, always full of new things, and Alfred and Ludwig had lost their scandalous glitz.

There came hope again, teasing Alfred as always. Alfred's guard began steadily lowering, as months passed and nothing at all happened.

The only loose thread left in Alfred's life these days was his father.

Just didn't know what to _do_ with him.

The second time that Alfred had gone home to find his father missing, he had darted once more out into the streets in search of him. That time, Alfred found him hours later close to Francis' house. Had intended to visit, no doubt, but had just been too confused to complete the journey.

Alfred walked him back home, and knew then that he couldn't really keep putting it off.

Couldn't keep ignoring this problem.

It was well beyond time to just bite the bullet and cast aside his excuses and find a home nurse. Time to stop contemplating the financial consequences and focus more on the moral ones. But only, of course, if Ludwig were onboard with it.

Time to have a conversation.

Would very much set Alfred back on his plans to whisk Ludwig out of the city when the old man was finally gone, but felt like it had to be done.

So that evening, Alfred dragged Ludwig to the couch, and said, "I need to talk to you about something."

Ludwig tensed up, a bit, but nodded his head, waiting patiently.

"I've been thinkin' about getting a nurse, to watch my dad. So I don't have to go over there anymore."

Ludwig quirked a brow, and was no doubt wondering why Alfred found this to be something he would actually talk about before just 'doing' as he always did.

"Oh? Sounds like a good idea."

"Yeah," Alfred grumbled, as he repositioned himself anxiously. "It's just— It's expensive. Really expensive. So. I'm not gonna do it unless you're alright with it. And I don't know how long it's gonna be before he...you know. Could be years. I know there are better things we can do with that money. What do you think? If you don't want me to, I won't. I can keep checking in, but I think I'd have to stay over there even more."

He already felt as if he stayed far too much. Spent far more time over there than he had ever wanted to, and _hated_ it.

Ludwig's pale eyes ran over his face, lips pushed out thoughtfully, and Alfred waited.

At last, with a sigh, Ludwig reached up patted Alfred's cheek, and said, with finality, "Do what you need to do. We'll figure it out, like we always do. It won't be the end of the world, losing a little money."

Alfred smiled, yanked Ludwig over, and kissed him.

Ludwig tried to squirm away from him, playfully, and chided, "Well? You have permission! Go do what you wanted."

Alfred kept a firm grip on him, and quickly changed tune as he hauled Ludwig back in.

"I'll do it Monday."

As he pinned Ludwig underneath him on the couch, Ludwig just wrapped arms around his neck, feigned an irritated sigh, and grumbled, "Be more professional."

"Professional? Don't know the meaning of the word! I am king of procrastination. Try sayin' _that_ instead."

Ludwig glared up at him, but tried to pronounce 'procrastination' all the same. Failed miserably, and had to kiss Alfred to get him to stop laughing.

A good distraction. Alfred had gotten far too used to finding distractions from important matters that were very pressing, and did so yet again. Sometimes, he just pressed too far.

'I'll do it Monday,' he had said, wasting the last Friday business hours to run his hands over Ludwig.

Shoulda gone right then.

Sunday morning.

Things had been nice lately. So uneventful.

Alfred had been dying to get out of this house and go see the park. Missed seeing Ludwig amongst the trees and flowers. Alfred's confidence was returning, slowly but surely, and he had been feeling sure of himself. Had been in the dark for so long and was restless and eager to put himself back into the world.

So that morning, Alfred looked over at Ludwig and asked, at last, "Is it walking time?"

Ludwig's beautiful smile.

"Thought you would never ask!"

Elation.

How he had missed that, being out with Ludwig, getting a sense of what it had been like before things had gotten so bad, and Alfred had been so excited that he had said, as he pulled on his boots, "Call Gilbert. See if he wants to meet us there. We can all go do something after."

Ludwig's beautiful smile.

And damn! What a spectacular feeling it was, to walk out of that door with Ludwig beside of him, as they stepped into the sunlight together for the first time in months. To look over and see Ludwig there beside of him, their eyes meeting and Ludwig smiling as he had in that previous, wonderful moment in time.

Again, perhaps foolishly, Alfred felt safe.

Trying to reclaim his sense of self and reinsert himself as knight and protector, back out into the vast city.

Ludwig glanced up at the sky, and snorted when he saw the clear blue. Alfred understood, and teased, so cheerfully, "Looks like no rain today. We'll try again next week."

"I look forward to it," Ludwig rumbled, his voice as deep as the thunder he sought out, and Alfred couldn't wait, either.

He was happy, for the first time in a long while, as they walked to the park in the warm weather, and Alfred would intentionally stagger sideways and knock into Ludwig, just to see him lift a brow and look exasperated. Hard not to be playful after be cooped up for so long, and the feeling was very mutual because Ludwig would quickly nudge Alfred back as soon as he regained balance.

People glanced, a few whispers, but it was old news now, and they walked without incident.

Ludwig's chin was held high. Looked happy and sure.

The park was visible in the distance.

Alfred's shoulders were rolled back in assurance, hands tucked in his pockets, gait as swaggering as it had been before the city had tried to knock him down. Arrogant and proud. Felt like the king of the town again, as he always had before.

Ludwig wasn't blind to Alfred's strutting, from that little smirk on his face.

Alfred just happened to glance over, and it was then that he spotted something across the street.

He stopped so abruptly mid-step that he almost fell face-first, and someone behind bumped into him and cursed him. He stood stark still, staring across the street in alarm.

The old man.

Damn! Had gotten out, was wandering again. Alfred watched him going down the street in the opposite direction, going where Alfred had come from, and knew that the old man was trying to find him again.

He heard himself hiss, "Shit!"

Ludwig tried to see what Alfred was staring at, but couldn't, asking, "What's wrong?"

"Wait here," Alfred said, as he looked both ways and darted across the street without eating a taxi, and when he reached the other side and sped after his father, he didn't stop to look back and make sure that Ludwig was listening to him.

Was too focused on grabbing the old man before he reached his destination.

They were on thin ice with the Germans; if Alfred's father kept coming around, Alfred was fairly certain that the community would band together to run Alfred and Ludwig out entirely. Didn't want that, didn't, and couldn't let them see him.

He reached his father, grabbed his arm and whirled him around.

His father looked a bit confused, but smiled when he saw Alfred, quick to chide, "There you are! Been looking everywhere for you! You're supposed to be grounded."

Alfred meant to start dragging his father along to take him back home, remembered Ludwig, and turned his eyes to the other side of the street. Was going to use gestures to tell Ludwig what his intentions were, but as Alfred looked past the honking cars, there was no flash of blond.

Ludwig wasn't there.

A jolt of adrenaline, and Alfred glanced over his shoulder long enough to see Ludwig coming down the street towards them.

Had told him to stay put; why had he followed?

No time to think, and Alfred opened his mouth.

And then his father's eyes spied Ludwig coming up from the back, and it was if a switch had flipped. Something set off the wire, and his father suddenly shoved Alfred back, crying, "Look out, kid!" and had pulled a gun out from within his beltline.

Happened so fast Alfred could barely comprehend.

All he knew when he regained his balance was that his wide-eyed father was pointing a gun at a wide-eyed Ludwig, and everyone on the street had backed up in alarm.

Terror.

Had never felt such terror as he did then, seeing his deranged old man holding a gun on Ludwig, knowing that his father saw a German soldier there, and knowing he would fire.

Ludwig must have known it too, had to, because Alfred could see that awful flash of fear on his face, and the pulse racing away in his neck. The dilation of his pupils and the bristling of his stance. The sharp inhale of breath, as instincts kicked in and senses heightened.

Alfred was frozen in place, in horror and fear, and didn't know what to do. Wanted to lunge forward but didn't dare; couldn't risk setting the old bastard off, not with Ludwig in his crosshairs like that.

The old man had mistaken Alfred yet again for that dead young soldier, and now Ludwig was likely the German that had killed him to begin with.

Helplessness.

Oh—this was all his _fault_ , his fault, why hadn't he just taken the fuckin' gun that day? All he had had to do was take the gun, coulda taken it then and wouldn't be here right now—

And then, suddenly, something rather remarkable happened.

Something Alfred would certainly never forget, anyway, for the rest of his damn life, never. Would never forget that moment.

Ludwig, staring down the barrel of that gun, suddenly exhaled, and it was as if everything in him had suddenly calmed right down. His pupils constricted again, his pulse slowed down, his stance relaxed. The fear and alarm on his face faded, and suddenly Ludwig just lifted his chin, rolled his shoulders back, stood up straight, and looked so dignified.

Looked so proud, suddenly, so brave, so unbothered and so unafraid, utterly tranquil.

Alfred had never once seen him like that, and it was beautiful.

Ludwig just stood there, didn't move at all, didn't speak. Just stared straight at that gun silently and didn't even flinch. In that moment, Ludwig was the most astounding thing Alfred had ever seen. Bravest man on the planet, he was sure of it, Ludwig in that instant. For the second time, Ludwig stood before an American soldier with a gun, and this time he wasn't scared.

As if Ludwig had just decided that if he was going to die, then he was going to do so gracefully and with dignity.

That woke Alfred up, because Ludwig wasn't dying today, he _wasn't_ , not today, not here, and not like this.

He lifted his foot, and took a step to the side, calling, "Dad! Look over here. It's me. The war's over, dad!"

A twitch of his father's eyes in Alfred's direction, as Alfred took another step.

"That's good! It's me! It's just Alfred. There's no soldier here, dad. It's over. You don't have to fight anymore."

A look of confusion, but the gun was ever aimed.

As slowly as he could, Alfred crept forward, closer and closer, trying so hard to stay calm, trying so hard to keep everything under control.

"Dad! Over here, look at me. It's me, it's Alfred, over here."

A quick glance, lost shortly after.

Ludwig was very still, and Alfred came ever closer.

So close, just a little more, was almost in front of Ludwig. Just a little more.

"Dad. Come on. Look over here, huh? Look here. It's _me_. This way, look at me."

One more glance, but it was what Alfred needed.

At last, finally, Alfred was successfully standing in front of Ludwig and blocking him from his father's sights. The gun pointed at his chest hardly mattered, as long as Ludwig was tucked back and safe.

Trying to catch the old man's gaze was a lot harder, as unfocused as he was. Looked so confused and lost, and Alfred wasn't sure if his father could really discern Alfred from the imaginary soldier. Who his father saw in that second.

Alfred took a step forward, so carefully.

The intention was to get close enough to his father to take the gun without getting shot, in one way or another.

"Dad, it's me. Don't you recognize me?"

His father's hand was shaking, terribly, hardly able to keep a steady aim at Alfred as he took one more step.

Behind, Ludwig breathed, so quietly and carefully, "Alfred. Don't. Please."

Alfred flung his hand slowly behind him, trying to tell Ludwig to keep quiet, and Ludwig obeyed, as Alfred tried to take one more step.

So close.

"It's Alfred. You know me. It's alright. The war—"

And then suddenly, _awful_ shrieking in German.

Every hair on Alfred's body stood up in terror, and he knew in an instant without even looking that Gilbert was there, that Gilbert was no doubt barging through the crowd that very second to come and save his little brother. Oh, god, that awful, booming screaming.

Alfred had never heard a voice as terrifying as Gilbert's, and his father heard it too.

So many stories of screaming German soldiers. Staring at the ends of rifles across barricades. The trembling of the ground as tanks came rolling in. That awful shrieking. Men screeching in languages that the other end couldn't understand.

Setting barns on fire—

Ruckus all around, chaos, cacophony, and for a surreal moment Alfred felt so lost at sea, so stuck in the atmosphere, so alone and so lost and so afraid. In the void, although there were people all around. Didn't understand how it was possible to feel so alone when there were hundreds of people around him on all sides. Could only see his father then, eyes widening in terror at the sound of Gilbert's voice. Could only see the blur of the gun, as it raised up in Gilbert's general direction as he burst through the crowd. A flash of Ludwig's pale hair in a blurry movement.

Could only hear the discharge then, as his father fired blindly.

Gilbert's awful screams.

Somehow, despite the daze, Alfred managed to turn his head, and the immediate sensation was indescribable _relief_ , _god_ that relief, because Ludwig may have been in front of Gilbert, but they were both still standing. Ludwig had leapt in to shield Gilbert, but it had been for naught because clearly his father had just missed.

Ludwig turned his head to Alfred.

That look.

Meeting Ludwig's pale eyes, lit up in the sunlight; what relief.

A long, horrible stare, and Alfred could see how hard Ludwig was trying to breathe, trying to stay still, but it somehow didn't click in his head at all until Ludwig abruptly staggered down onto one knee, despite his best effort. Just didn't understand, couldn't comprehend, until he saw the stain of red spreading across Ludwig's shirt.

_No_ —

His father's gun was still held there in the direction of Gilbert, who was shrieking again as he too fell down to one knee to clench Ludwig's collar, looking utterly distraught.

The gun aimed again.

Alfred lunged.

A second shot, before Alfred could make it over.

It wasn't Gilbert that fell over, though—his old man fell instead, staggering back and then collapsing. The sound of the gun clattering on the concrete.

Confusion. Had never been so confused. Just couldn't comprehend anything going on around him.

The old man didn't move.

Alfred looked over, as shock kept him from hysteria, if only momentarily, and saw.

Lovino.

Standing a ways back, in front of the crowd, gun in hand and looking about as shocked as Alfred. A glance back and forth between Alfred and the old man, Lovino's dark eyes quite wide, and Alfred looked down at his father from beyond that fog.

Sound had gone out. Couldn't hear anything, anything at all. Dull throbbing in his ears.

His eyes were drawn to the other side by motion, to see Gilbert clenching Ludwig's hand with his left and using his right to press down on Ludwig's abdomen.

...where was he?

Didn't know what was _happening_.

Felt lost and out in space, confused, dazed, and Alfred felt his feet moving on their own as he tumbled over to Gilbert and fell still before him, staring down at Ludwig as if he had never seen him before.

Still couldn't hear. Gilbert's mouth was moving, frantically, but everything seemed rather far away.

A pain in his knees, as Alfred fell down to them, one palm on the concrete for balance as he leaned forward, the other reaching out to snatch Ludwig's hand when Gilbert let it go to use both hands instead to press down on the wound.

Didn't know what the hell was going on.

His ears were ringing.

Ludwig turned his head, met Alfred's eyes, and it felt in some way as if they were looking at each other from through a thick mist. Knew the other was there, but couldn't exactly see. Ludwig's gaze was so unfocused, and Alfred felt that he was staring through Ludwig rather than at him. Standing on opposite sides of a cloudy mirror.

Ludwig's lips moved—couldn't hear him.

A smile, weak and yet still so pretty. Damn, how he loved it when Ludwig smiled. A gentle squeeze of his hand, and it took Alfred a rather long while to realize that Ludwig's eyes had closed.

His balance faltered, he fell sideways, and then he was sitting, legs before him and propped up on his hands. Looked over, as the edges of his vision seemed to get just a bit dark.

The old man didn't move at all, though bystanders had come forward to press his wound as Gilbert was Ludwig's.

Come to think, though...

Ludwig wasn't moving, either.

He looked up.

Lovino just stood there, so calmly. So placidly. Tucked his gun away and pulled out a cigarette instead. Couldn't seem to light it, though, because his hands were shaking so badly. When he finally managed, he just inhaled and looked around, back and forth, and seemed rather lost. Dazed. Shocked. Was that how Alfred looked?

Over the garbled chaos, the distant sound of sirens.

Alfred still didn't know where he was. What was happening.

Just sat there on his backside on the sidewalk, held up on his palms and staring dumbly at Gilbert, who had fallen ever lower, his forehead pressing into Ludwig's cheek as he pushed down, and Alfred could see in Gilbert's terrible shaking that he was crying. Could only faintly hear him wailing.

Damn, was Ludwig ever pale.

Always had been.

Something warm on his hand; he looked down, blearily, the edges of his vision blurring with the movement, dragging, and saw that the trail of blood had reached him. Couldn't move. Just stared at it, ears ringing.

Lovino staggered over and sat down on the curb, staring off at nothing.

Blurs and movement. The siren was louder.

An awful pain suddenly started blazing behind his eyes. Throbbing. Aching. His head was pounding.

The mists started to thin.

Numbness was fading as the shock began to wear off. Hysteria started to rise in its place.

That dullness sharpened. Color bled in. The ringing in his ears faded. Everything that had been so slow and blurry sped back up. Panic and terror, crashing through the fog. A burning surge of adrenaline, lighting up his nerves. An inhale so deep it was painful.

And the first thing that Alfred could clearly hear, when his senses returned, was the sound he wished he could have gone the rest of his life without experiencing; Gilbert's awful sobbing. Wailing.

It hit him hard, that sensory overload, and Alfred was once more on his knees, this time alert and painfully aware of where he was and what was happening, and he pressed his hands atop Gilbert's bloody ones, adding more pressure, and hoping every time he looked down that Ludwig would just open his eyes.

Just wake up.

He didn't.

The siren was upon them. Screeching tires.

Alfred didn't realize that he was bawling as hard as Gilbert was, wasn't aware of it. Could only see that red pouring over Gilbert's fingers, seemingly no matter how hard they pressed. It had run down Ludwig's chest, and down his neck.

The awful sight of that bright crimson on pale Ludwig; wasn't right.

Shouting.

The police officers barged onto the street.

Alfred could see them out of the corner of his eye, but wasn't fully aware of them, staring at Ludwig as he was through his helpless sobbing.

Why wouldn't he just wake up? Say something. Anything. Just let Alfred know that he was gonna be alright, was that too fuckin' much to ask? Was it?

A rush of irrational anger, fighting with the panic.

Hated the way the blood felt on his hands.

...shoulda been quicker. Shoulda acted quicker, shoulda been faster, had had a chance there to lunge, he had, just hadn't been quick enough, had hesitated, caught in that stupor—

Screaming, as the officers tried to regain control. A few of them had knelt over the old man and were picking him up, taking him to the vehicle.

Alfred didn't budge, and neither did Gilbert, when the men came over. Wouldn't move, wouldn't let up, wouldn't take his hands off of Ludwig, because in that moment touching Ludwig was the only thing keeping Alfred from having a complete breakdown, feeling him and knowing that he was still _there_ , even if he wouldn't open his eyes. Even though he wouldn't speak.

He was shoved off, very forcefully, and Gilbert was dragged back.

Again, Alfred found himself on his backside, watching helplessly.

In a second, Ludwig was gone, and Gilbert was shrieking as he tried to break free and follow. Couldn't that time, no matter how hard he tried, and when the sirens were far away Gilbert just seemed to give up. Fell limp and still, and slid down to the ground, burying his face in his blood-soaked hands and crying.

Alfred was too damn dumb; couldn't even feel his legs anymore. Sat there and stared at the blood on the sidewalk. Had stopped crying. Couldn't think.

All that blood.

Knowing who it had come from.

The police were questioning the crowd, scribbling away, and Alfred glanced up.

Several people in the crowd pointed towards Lovino, who was ever silent and still. A gun pointed quickly at him, but Lovino didn't flinch. Just took one final long drag on his cigarette, flicked it to the ground, and raised his hands to the level of his chest. They had stopped shaking. Steady.

A hand grabbed his arm.

Alfred looked up. The cop was talking to him, but too damn fast. Couldn't comprehend. Was just too much, so much, and he was pulled to his face. The officer shook him a little, trying to get him to focus.

When it didn't work, he led Alfred over to the waiting car.

As the door opened and Alfred was gently pushed in, he glanced over in time to see Lovino being handcuffed.

The door slammed shut.

The smell of blood, overwhelming and potent.

How had it come to this?

Alfred pressed his forehead into the glass, and watched the blurry street suddenly fly by, too dazed to care about what was actually happening. Couldn't think about anything.

Just kept hearing Ludwig's voice.

That wasn't _fair_ —Ludwig had just said those words.

Had waited every night to hear them.

The castle was gone. Razed, leaving only scorched earth behind. Had tried so hard to protect Ludwig, but the tower had failed, had been too tall, had collapsed, and Alfred had lost Ludwig in the rubble. Had failed miserably in his role of knight.

His shield had shattered and had left them exposed and helpless.

Alfred had lost Ludwig, and he couldn't find him, however far under the rubble he dug.

Nothing there.

The only time Alfred had ever felt happy was when Ludwig's palms had held his face.

Night.


	24. Acceleration Waltz (Epilog)

**Chapter 24**

**Acceleration Waltz**

**(Epilog)**

It was actually remarkable how long the days could drag when you were looking at a door that you knew no one was going to come walking through.

The worst feeling.

That loneliness. Staring and staring and knowing there was no point. Looking over to empty space. Throwing an arm out in bed to hit cold sheets. Having coffee alone at the table in the morning, staring at the empty chair beyond.

Alfred had always been so impatient, and lying here inert on the couch, staring at the door endlessly, near catatonia, was maddening. Lost up in his head. Replaying his entire life over and over again in his mind. Funny, how many things you wished you could change, when everything was said and done. How differently one day could have gone, had one little detail been different. Pinpointing every possible outcome, had a hand been lifted or a footstep shifted.

Days were dragging, lurching along.

As bad as those horrible hours in that police station after.

Had never been such a quivering, incomprehensible wreck. Hadn't even known it was actually possible, for a man to become such an absolute mess.

Blurry and disjointed, as reality had collapsed around him and his shot mind had shut down, leaving him in a state of panic and irrationality and terror. Could never have hoped to explain those feelings. Swear he had just blacked out for a good majority of it, because the memories were so disjointed and mixed up. Didn't remember being led into the police station at all. One minute he was in the car, and the next he was sitting at a desk in a warm office, brightly lit and painful to his sore eyes. Couldn't focus, couldn't function.

Just clenched his hands atop the desk and pressed his forehead into them and cried.

Garbled words.

Had felt himself speaking, knew he was, but didn't know what was coming out of his mouth.

Helpless, completely and utterly helpless, the world spinning around him as he sat there in the dark of his mind, unable to see anything and know what was happening and where Ludwig was and if he was even...

Hours and hours, barely comprehending questions and struggling harder to answer them, bawling as he was, so caught up in that panic of being useless and lost.

Remembered asking, during a lull, "Where is he?"

Just wanted to know where Ludwig was, because Alfred was lost and seeing Ludwig was the only thing these days that reminded him of who and where he was. Needed Ludwig so much, more than he needed anyone, more than he had ever needed anything in his life. Needed Ludwig then to hold his fuckin' hand, and didn't know where he _was_.

Ludwig couldn't be missing, because Alfred was lost and would never have found his way without him.

Remembered the silence.

Remembered asking again, more urgently, "Where _is_ he?"

Remembered an officer suddenly coming up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and saying, lowly, "It's gonna be alright, son. No one's gonna think less of your father. We all know what a hero he was."

Remembered the way his crying had stopped in a blink, caught in a stupor. The hitch of his breath, as the words sank in. The rise of contempt. Hatred. The surge and burn of wrath, breaking through the confusion and despair.

He remembered bolting upright, thrusting the officer's hand off of his shoulder, remembered barging by them and out of the office, slamming the door so hard that it banged into the wall. Remembered them calling to him. Remembered someone grabbing his arm, and remembered wrenching away. Remembered pushing open the door and stepping out into the warm air.

And then he just walked in circles, because he was confused and didn't know where he was.

Knew the city like the back of his hand, and was helplessly lost. Couldn't focus, couldn't think, couldn't figure out where the hell he was, what street he was on. Buildings all around him; knew them all by sight and name and yet they were entirely foreign. Didn't recognize them.

He just stalked back and forth in front of the police station, back and forth, over and over and over again, breathing through his mouth and unable to catch his breath, vision blurry and fists clenched. Back and forth. Lost. Didn't know where to go, what to do. What did he do? He stopped short, ran a hand up into his hair, looking around in a vain attempt to gather his bearings, and all he accomplished was bursting into tears again.

Stood there, dumb and alone and crying, until someone grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

Whispering in his ear.

Matthew.

Knew it was Matthew at some level, but just couldn't focus long enough to truly comprehend him. Kept on trying to walk, as Matthew struggled to hold him still.

When he finally managed to say something, all that came out again was, "Where is he?"

Matthew's hands were on his face then, trying to force his gaze, grabbing him so furiously that the rims of his glasses dug painfully into his face. Couldn't focus long enough to hold Matthew's gaze, trying to look around aimlessly yet.

Was terrified, so scared, and couldn't do anything about it.

Remembered Matthew's low whisper, deep and soothing against the night.

"It's gonna be alright, look at me, you gotta calm down—"

Couldn't.

Matthew tried hard again to meet his eyes, and this time he succeeded, but only very briefly, because Alfred suddenly burst into tears yet again, uttering, in a high-pitched whine, "Why won't anyone tell me what's goin' _on_?"

Matthew's hands held firm and steady, not releasing his face once, and he had replied, "Because you gotta calm down first, man! We've been talkin' to you for hours, but you don't pay attention!"

Had they? Didn't remember any of that.

He spaced again for a while there, and came to only long enough to see Francis and Matthew conversing quietly in front of him. He was sitting somewhere, in some house. Didn't know whose. Francis shoved a pill in his mouth shortly after, Alfred swallowed it, and he didn't remember anything after that for a good few hours.

The days had all blurred together.

And here he was now at home, lying on the couch and staring at the door.

So quiet. Silence was Alfred's worst enemy.

Staring at the door drove him to the brink of absolute insanity, all of that waiting, all of that thinking, so, even though he had been forbidden to, Alfred just got up one Sunday afternoon, and pushed right through that door. Francis had gone home to sleep; wasn't there to stop him. He left.

Walked out to the street. Hailed a taxi. Took it across the city.

Watching the cemetery rolling up through the window.

Passing it.

And when he stepped out in front of the hospital, he already felt a hell of a lot better, because even though no one was coming to walk through the door back home, he could just go walk through this door instead.

Ludwig couldn't come to him, so he went to Ludwig.

Yeah, those days had all blurred together, alright, passing in and out as Francis drugged him up that first night and took him afterwards to the hospital. The fuzzy, bleary memory of that waiting room. Waiting and waiting, Alfred calm for the first time, mellow and sedated on whatever the hell they'd given him. Matthew and Francis pacing relentlessly in the room, back and forth, back and forth. Gilbert slumped in a chair, even more drugged up than Alfred was, so knocked out he couldn't even hold his head upright even though he was awake. Antonio sitting there beside of him, foot tapping furiously and hands clenched in his hair. Felicia huddled up in another chair, twisted at the side and arms folded, face buried in them and sobbing so hard that her entire body shook with the effort, and sometimes she sobbed _so_ hard that she coughed and made herself retch.

Waiting and waiting, Alfred looking around in that tranquil blur, colors dull and quite woozy, caught in that feeling that came right after waking up from being anesthetized. Carefree and elated, and yet so terrified deep down. An awful fear, lurking just under the surface.

Didn't know if those times were even real or not, or just something he had dreamt up in the darkness.

The doctor finally coming inside, long, long hours later.

Gilbert had long since succumbed completely to the sedative and was no longer conscious. Alfred was hanging in there, probably looking high as a kite and just as dumb, unable to even focus his eyes on the doctor for more than a few seconds.

Felicia leaning forward, brow crinkled and face devastated and hovering on the verge of bursting into fresh tears.

Francis had crept over to Alfred's side, hands ready. Just in case.

And then to hear those words.

"He's hanging in there. If he can keep it up a few more days—he might make it. Keep your hopes up. Him making it through this surgery is a damn good sign."

Felicia immediately burst into tears yet again, this time stumbling over to Matthew and hugging him, burying her face in his chest. Matthew and Francis shared a look, smiles shaky and nervous but there all the same. Antonio's great sigh, as he threw back his head and covered his face with his palms.

Alfred just looked around, so confused, and then closed his eyes and leaned back on the chair, falling immediately asleep as his subconscious suddenly told him it was safe to.

Couldn't do anything else but sleep and wait.

Damn, though!

Was that wait the longest of his life. Hadn't left the hospital at all after that, and neither had Gilbert, the two of them on either side of Ludwig's bed those next days, as soon as the nurses let them in. They sat down, and stayed there. Didn't leave once, not once, and relied upon the others for sustenance.

Ludwig woke up for the first time on the sixth day, and Gilbert had been bawling so hard that Alfred was certain he couldn't even see Ludwig at all, clenching his hand and sobbing away, whispering to Ludwig.

Alfred just hovered over, feeling mute and dull, caught up yet in that guilt, that sense of failure. Had let Ludwig down, had been unable to protect him when it really mattered, and felt more ashamed by that than he could say. Wondered what Gilbert thought of him, and was so glad then that they couldn't communicate.

Ludwig woke up, yeah, but wasn't ever really conscious, lucid, and was out again shortly after.

On the seventh day, Francis and Matthew had had enough of them, and had ordered Gilbert and Alfred to go home, and stay there. To rest. Why bother? What was the point? Was already half-dead. Why go home and just do nothing there when he was doing nothing here?

Francis had aggressively wrangled Alfred, who was just too damn tired and weak to really fight him off. Matthew had tried his hand at Gilbert, but failed at that, because Gilbert was a tank and when he didn't want to move, he wouldn't. Matthew and Felicia and Antonio all together was what it took, in the end, to drag Gilbert out of that hospital room, and quite literally.

But home they had been sent, and Alfred had testily obeyed.

...until now.

Had been long enough.

It had been fourteen days since that awful sound of a gun, and Matthew had called him every day, keeping him up to speed, as he and Francis and Felicia all took turns watching over Ludwig.

Couldn't wait anymore, just couldn't, and Francis had left his guard duty.

Matthew wasn't gonna be happy to see him here.

He pushed open the door as quietly as possible, and smiled the second he stepped inside. Ludwig was yet asleep, and curled there next to him in that tiny bed was Felicia, asleep as well, her head rested up on Ludwig's shoulder and his arm beneath her, his head turned in her direction. One wrong move and she would topple out, but she couldn't have cared less. Her shoes were down on the floor, and clearly she had no intention of moving anytime soon.

Unable to be parted, it seemed, even in dire straights. Ludwig had yet to truly come to, and yet seemed to sense Felicia there all the same, turned as he was towards her.

In the corner, Matthew sat in a chair, coffee in hand and looking utterly exhausted.

He glanced up, saw Alfred, and the lecture began.

Matthew immediately sighed, and chastised, in a whisper, "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be resting. You're so stubborn. Go back home. I've been calling you. Get outta here."

"I rested. I'm good now. How long did you really think I would stay away?"

Matthew watched him carefully as he came forward in the room, eyeing him up and down and observing his appearance. When apparently he was satisfied, Matthew merely sighed and said, "Well. Guess you actually obeyed for a little longer than I thought you would. For once."

Alfred sat on the other end of the room in the other chair, watching Ludwig and Felicia and smiling yet away.

Hated seeing all those IVs, yeah, but it was far too beautiful a sight to be anything other than happy.

Ludwig was alive—all Alfred cared about. Not out of the woods by any means, but every single day that passed without incident was one day closer to him pulling through. So much Ludwig had survived, as strong as he was, and Alfred was confident that this was just another hurdle Ludwig would cross.

Matthew met his eyes from across the bed, and muttered, "I thought it would be Gilbert that cracked first. You let him outdo you."

Alfred waved a hand in the air, accepting the loss of that battle quite happily.

Gilbert had Antonio to block the door and force him to rest; Alfred had been completely alone for the most part, with Francis frequently abandoning him. Not a fair fight at all.

Alfred studied sleeping Felicia, gathered his courage, and asked, so quietly, "Lovino?"

Matthew smiled, and Alfred felt a twinge of relief.

"Don't worry. He's already cleared. So many witnesses, you know, and I'm pretty sure he's got more than a few connections in the system."

Matthew looked very uneasy towards the end of that statement, no doubt envisioning his life being with the sister of a man that had clearly never been afraid to call himself a Mafioso, exaggerated or no, but she must have been worth it to him because here he was.

Alfred just looked back over at Ludwig, and fell silent.

Regretted that he couldn't be the one climbing into the bed. Probably for the best. Might have broken the damn thing, and certainly wouldn't fit on it as easily as Felicia did.

Matthew was staring at him, relentlessly, and Alfred knew that he wanted to ask how things were going in the more practical side of this entire awful ordeal. Curious, but knowing that asking was likely quite insensitive.

In that end, anyway, Alfred wasn't exactly being proactive. In fact, Francis had been doing everything, and Alfred had only been there dumbly at his side, slapping his illegible signature down every time he was prompted to.

The old man was dead. Hadn't made it to the hospital. The house was Alfred's now. Everything his father had had, now his, and he wasn't fully aware of that yet in some way. It was still hard for him to really comprehend this hectic stretch in time, and Francis just shoved him along and walked him where he needed to go.

The only time Alfred woke up enough to slide out of Francis' grasp and assert himself, to know what he wanted, was when Francis had tried to take him to the funeral.

Wouldn't go. Couldn't. Didn't have that in him, because he was still so caught up in that panic that was always lying in wait under the surface. Felt so many conflicting emotions, and wasn't sure what being at a funeral would do to him. Didn't know how he would handle it, and was happier not knowing.

The main thought in his mind : if he went to the funeral, felt overwhelmed and cried, if he had actually mourned the old man, had remembered the way he had once been before the war, if he had thought too much and actually _mourned_ him, only to have Ludwig take a turn for the worse—

Couldn't fathom shedding a tear for his father and then suddenly waking up to a phone call from Matthew, hearing a wailing Felicia in the background. Wouldn't have pulled through that, and so he didn't go.

Francis went, because Francis had a high sense of duty and honor, and Alfred stayed behind, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at nothing, newspaper beneath him. The paper, of course, declared 'war hero to be laid to rest today', neatly glossing over everything else. As it had, his entire life.

Alfred couldn't say he was really functional these days, and that was probably why Matthew eventually looked away and didn't say a word. Probably didn't really need to, because he and Francis spoke every day. No doubt Francis had already told Matthew about Alfred's mechanical signing of papers he didn't even glance at, let alone read.

They sat there in silence, Matthew watching Felicia fondly, as Alfred watched Ludwig.

Eventually, Matthew did ask, softly, "Going back to work soon?"

"Tomorrow," Alfred responded. Hated it, was going to be an absolute wreck, was going to be unable to focus and concentrate. His reprieve had been only until the funeral, and now it was time to tread back into the world. The city, after all, didn't stand still just because Alfred did, and he had to work, even as Ludwig lie there ever asleep.

Just wanted Ludwig to wake up. Wouldn't feel safe until Ludwig finally regained consciousness. Caught in this misty grey plane of uncertainty. Oh, god, would this have been his existence had Ludwig not pulled through that first surgery? Is this what he would have been doomed to, for the rest of eternity? Lost in this fog?

Maybe, but it didn't matter; a few days after Alfred had gone back to work, Ludwig finally woke up and was lucid.

Later in the evening. A normal day then of sitting there, and then all of a sudden out of nowhere Ludwig had started shifting around. Alfred had cried again, pitifully, hanging over Ludwig so low that their foreheads almost bumped, clenching Ludwig's hand so tightly that it must have hurt.

Long minutes of Ludwig stirring and trying to come around, and at his other side, hanging down just as far was Felicia. But hell, she was cryin' too, so Alfred felt just a little less pathetic about it all.

Finally, after shifting and deep breathing, there was a sharp inhale, and Ludwig's eyes cracked open.

Alfred and Felicia leaned down at the same time and slammed heads, quite painfully, but neither of them would pull back, choosing instead to compromise and hover there above Ludwig, hair against hair and staring down likely very intently.

Matthew dutifully picked up the phone, no doubt calling Gilbert. Wouldn't need much to communicate this, he supposed, as Gilbert would immediately come running at the sound of Ludwig's name.

A crinkle of pain in Ludwig's brow, and it was another long while before his eyes opened into enough of a slit for his irises to be visible. Another minute after that before they opened just a bit more, and Ludwig could see. How well he could actually see was surely a topic up for debate, but regardless his gaze rested on Alfred, then Felicia, and he looked back and forth between them for a while before groaning and shutting his eyes altogether.

A long silence, then a very husky, very guttural whisper.

"That's creepy."

Alfred laughed, it came out as a sob, and Felicia hung her head and gave a shaky exhale.

That relief was overwhelming, flooding the room.

When Matthew hung up the phone and Alfred was kissing Ludwig's hand, a nurse came in. They all watched as she prodded and poked Ludwig, and Alfred was just so astounded to see Ludwig awake, speaking, conscious, alert, answering questions.

Had been so certain Ludwig was gone.

Gilbert came skidding into the room shortly after, panting and gasping for air, clearly having run as fast as he could from down below, Antonio hot on his heels. Gilbert's face when he saw Ludwig awake—Alfred didn't know any words that could have ever described that. That wide-eyed look of elation, brow so low and mouth open, as if Gilbert had seen something so wondrous that it was actually terrifying to him. That beautiful moment when their eyes met, and Ludwig smiled back.

It seemed that, at long last, Ludwig was out of the woods. Was awake, was lucid, was holding so steady, and the nurses smiled. The doctor seemed pleased.

Good news.

Matthew immediately said, the second Ludwig's survival had seemed guaranteed, "I'm goin' _home_. See ya soon."

Had been here almost endlessly, Matthew, and had to have been well beyond exhausted. Alfred clapped Matthew's shoulder, and said, "Go sleep, man. You look terrible. Get some rest. Thanks. Really."

Matthew lifted his chin in inclination, and was gone in a flash.

Deserved that rest, more than anyone, and now that Ludwig was awake Matthew was promptly replaced by other visitors, and sometimes entirely at random and completely unexpectedly.

Alfred went down for a coffee one Saturday morning, and when he came back into the room Alice was there, hanging over Ludwig and handing him a cup. Alfred bristled, Alice looked up, and Alfred was quick to ask, "What's that?"

Swear to god, if she had brewed some new damn potion—

They stared at him, oddly, and it was Ludwig who looked at the cup, back up, and said, "Coffee?"

"Oh. Yeah."

Thought Alice looked rather smug but Alfred shook it off, coming forward and grumbling, "I was getting you some."

"Now I have two," Ludwig merely replied, and with that he turned his eyes back to Alice and they chatted to each other quietly.

Alfred sat down, looked around a bit as he held his coffee between his knees, and realized how _bizarre_ life could really be. All of these people, coming and going, people that never in any other circumstance would really have sought the other out. In what other possible scenario would Alice have ever visited _Ludwig_ for a chit-chat? How was it that hospitals drew strangers together out of nowhere? Life was very odd.

Another day, as Alfred leaned down and murmured endlessly to Ludwig, he happened to glance up and see a newcomer there in the doorframe.

Lovino.

Felicia wasn't there, nor was Alice, and Ludwig followed Alfred's gaze. A short, awkward silence, as Alfred stood up straight, and when Lovino finally stepped inside, he said to Alfred, "You mind giving me a few minutes alone?"

Instantly, Alfred nodded, and walked to the door.

He stood there, expectantly, only to have Lovino roll his eyes and gripe, testily, "With _him_ , asshole!"

Cranky as ever.

"Oh."

Feeling dumb, Alfred glanced over at Ludwig, back at Lovino, shrugged a shoulder, and walked out, closing the door behind him. He waited there in the hall, as Lovino and Ludwig spoke.

Felt like he was in there for a long time.

When Alfred's patience was waning, Lovino finally came out, and he stopped and stared at Alfred, shifting his weight. Looked so out of place and anxious, and when Lovino reached up to smooth back his hair, he said, in a voice intentionally so low that maybe Alfred just wouldn't hear, "Sorry about— I did what I had to, but I'm sorry."

Alfred heard, despite Lovino's efforts, and lifted his chin.

Didn't know what to say, so he just stuck his hand out to Lovino then. Lovino took it, shook it, and then drew back and punched Alfred's shoulder as he passed him.

Alfred called to him, in a tease, "Say— You ever marry Alice, I wanna be your best man. I wanna be there for _that_ insanity. I'll accept that as your apology."

Lovino nearly tripped over his own feet, and Alfred was so certain that his face was red when he glared back over his shoulder. Stalked quickly off without a word, but it had been said, and he knew that Lovino would have no choice really but to comply. That pompous sense of violent honor wouldn't let him refuse.

Alfred went back inside, and Ludwig was smiling. He didn't ask, because he assumed Ludwig would just tell him, but Ludwig never did.

Whatever Lovino and Ludwig had said to each other in that room was a mystery to Alfred, and he never found out.

Francis came by later on that day, bringing a bag full of bread that Alfred could tell had come from that German shop. Damn. Felt like the world was upside down, thinking of Francis walking into a German shop of his own volition. To Francis, though, Alfred's smile must have been well worth any awkwardness, and maybe even Francis had smiled rather fondly himself at how happy Ludwig was to see something familiar after so long being unable to go to that shop.

So many people, at so many different hours. But Gilbert was there every single day, naturally, as Alfred was, and sometimes they just stared at each other above a sleeping Ludwig, unable to communicate and yet in perfect understanding of what the other was thinking.

It was strange, and kinda sad, but it occurred to Alfred that inside of that hospital seemed to be where the world was most harmonious. Where everyone got along, because there was no other choice. Inside the walls of the hospital, nationality and borders didn't matter anymore. No one cared about who had fought against whom in the last great war; there were just people.

The hospital was the worst place to be, and at the same time Alfred almost wished he could have just passed the rest of their lives within those sheltered walls.

But of course, they couldn't, and Ludwig perked up more and more every day.

Two months after he was admitted, Ludwig was discharged.

The greatest day of Alfred's life, and probably of Gilbert's too, because the jerk kept fighting with Alfred for the position right in front of the door so that he could be the one to grab Ludwig's arm and walk him to the cab. A long moment of struggling, but eventually Gilbert was victorious, if only because Alfred allowed him to be. Ah, hell. He had the rest of his life with Ludwig, and Gilbert had been snatched away from him far too soon. Let the bastard walk his little brother out of the hospital if he so desperately wanted to do so.

Alfred was quick to step in on the other side, though, and Ludwig just looked back and forth between them with a hint of exasperation.

Clearly, though, Ludwig was every bit as elated as they were, and he just couldn't stop smiling.

The cab ride was silent, as they all looked around and took in where they were and how they had gotten there and how astounding it was that they could all be sitting there together at the same time. From the front seat, Alfred looked frequently over his shoulder back at Ludwig, as Ludwig stared out of the window and peacefully watched the city pass with a soft smile.

Being alive...

Who knew Alfred would ever sit there and actually think about something like that?

Ludwig eyed every building that passed, as if seeing it for the first time. How did that feel, he wondered, to be on the very brink of the abyss and then to come back? How wonderful the world must have appeared to Ludwig in that moment. How astounding.

Gilbert stared at Ludwig the entire while, as Ludwig stared at the city.

No one spoke, and suddenly they were home.

Alfred looked around as soon as they stepped out of the cab, and was disappointed and yet not surprised. No one there. Had hoped, in some stupid way, that maybe the Germans would have come out to greet Ludwig, to check on him, to welcome him back and wish him well as neighbors should, but no one ever did.

Alfred remembered that outside of the hospital, life had gone on as normal, and nothing had changed. They still weren't welcome here, they weren't part of this community, and it was then, at last, that Alfred knew it was finally time to leave it behind.

Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Gilbert and Alfred walked Ludwig inside, and Alfred looked over his shoulder at the last second, sending the neighborhood a very reproachful sweep of his eyes. That resentment gnawed at him. Bitterness.

It would be good riddance.

Ludwig didn't look back; he had accepted it, no doubt, as Ludwig quietly and bravely accepted everything, but Alfred wasn't so easily placated.

Gilbert sat Ludwig down on the couch, settled in next to him, and they snuggled there together for long hours, Gilbert's rough voice murmuring away to Ludwig endlessly as Ludwig drifted into sleep there against him.

Alfred patiently waited his turn.

Antonio came by, shortly after, and when Ludwig awoke hours later and was alert, Antonio whisked Gilbert away, no doubt understanding how Alfred felt and knowing he wanted privacy.

When they were finally alone back home, the first thing Ludwig said, as he curled up there on the couch and stared up at Alfred, was, "I like this. I expect you to treat me like this from now on."

Alfred snorted and knelt down, hand resting in Ludwig's hair, and he was quick to gripe, "I thought I was already treating you like a princess all this time. Sorry. I'll try harder."

"Please don't," Ludwig immediately amended, smiling away, and Alfred felt peaceful then, above all else.

Felt as if everything just started all over from here.

Ludwig walking back through the door that day felt more like starting a brand new life. All of the old obstacles had gone. The past had come full circle. Everything was where it should be, how it should be. The only thing to do was carry on and start all over.

Forward.

The journey with Ludwig had been a staircase, alright, and then that long hallway, and now, at last, Alfred was fairly certain that he had finally reached that final door that had loomed so long there at the end.

A long stare, and then Alfred finally gathered up the courage to ask, carefully, "If I said that I wanted to move outside of the city, would you go with me?"

Ludwig's brow scrunched, as if he were in contemplation, and before Ludwig could even open his mouth Alfred was already going into damage control.

"Or if that's too much, we can move into my old house. It's nice. It is. It has a backyard. You'd like it. We can fix it up. It's mine, now, so... It could be ours, I mean. Whatever you want."

A hand reached out, and rested on the side of his face. As he always did, Alfred slumped into it and closed his eyes.

Ludwig's voice was hardly audible, one of those rumbling whispers.

"I'll follow you, wherever you go."

Wanted to believe that, more than anything, but was afraid to press too far, because Alfred knew that Ludwig really would have done whatever Alfred said, but wasn't so sure that he could really be happy if he were taken away from Felicia and Gilbert.

Alfred would have left the state entirely, if he were honest. Wanted to go farther south, wanted to go to Virginia maybe, but that would have been too far away. Alfred very much doubted that Felicia would have left New York City for some quiet mountain town in Virginia, although Gilbert certainly would have. Alfred didn't know where he sat in Ludwig's line of importance. Knew he was under Gilbert by a hair, but wondered about Felicia. She was the only reason Alfred didn't pick up the phone and start calling realtors.

Alfred just put his hand atop Ludwig's, and knelt there until Ludwig fell asleep.

So, for now, Alfred stayed close to home, and over the next month he used Francis to help him sell his childhood home and find a new one just outside of the city, towards White Plains.

Grass and trees. A forest.

That was most important to Alfred, during his endless search, just that there be a forest behind them. Ludwig had grown up on the doorstep of a forest, and Alfred wanted more than anything to give that back to him.

He found what he sought, with Francis' eager help, and could only make the best use of the time he had left in the city.

He bought a car, an old junker but functional, from his boss, and spent an hour every day after work teaching himself to drive, under his boss' watchful eye. A month later, he had gotten a license, although, his boss said, it 'might have been a little too soon.' Ah—hadn't crashed into anything yet, and he got better every day. Manhattan at rush hour was the best training ground on Earth for conducting a vehicle.

Ludwig would be in very safe hands by the time the city was done with Alfred.

The day after he obtained his license, Alfred sat Ludwig down, grabbed his hands, and told him of what he had done. Hadn't exactly been forthcoming with Ludwig about what he had been up to lately, to spare him any undue anxiety and stress. Maybe Alfred just hadn't told him because he was still so frightened that when it came down to the wire, Ludwig wouldn't choose _him_.

Alfred's grip on Ludwig's hands was desperate, and likely a bit painful, but Ludwig sat very patiently nonetheless, and didn't say a word in the long minutes Alfred incoherently rambled to him.

At some point, Alfred must have been so nervous that he was yammering too quickly and disjointedly for Ludwig to understand him, because Ludwig tilted his head a bit and then abruptly pressed forward to kiss Alfred.

When he pulled back, Ludwig merely murmured, "I didn't understand a word you said, but I'm sure I'll be happy to go along with it, anyway."

Alfred laughed, weakly, and snatched Ludwig up into an embrace, pulling quickly back when he winced a bit, and Alfred swore to him then, "If it's too much, we'll come back. Anything you want."

Ludwig studied him, quietly, and whispered, "I liked it better when you didn't worry so much about everything and just did what you wanted."

A pang.

"Yeah," he replied, after a silence. "Me too."

That was why, in the end, they needed to get out of here.

Two more months passed, and then, with a flourish of the final rounds of paperwork, it was time to go.

And it was terrifying.

Packing.

That was the strangest part, really, was the packing. Dreamy, in a way, so exciting and yet somehow saddening. That feeling of leaving behind something familiar to find something new. Hope, and fear. Could see Ludwig's hands shaking as he packed, and understood. It was frightening, however exhilarating it was. Leaving comfort to set out into the unknown. Ludwig had lived here for years, this was the only home he knew on this side of the ocean, and to leave it at last must have been terrifying in a way, even though he was smiling.

To Alfred, it was rather surreal. In some way, he felt for the first time in that moment that he was an adult, a man at last, taking his own first steps and leading his own life, relying upon no one but himself and his own strengths. His father was gone; no one to fall back on. The last bit of childhood shattered, the second he shut his suitcase. His new life, and all of it his own doing.

Pride, overtaking fear.

But then came the goodbyes.

Alfred threw the suitcases into the trunk, and looked up to see Ludwig completely slumped, his face held in Felicia's hands, and he was crying. Didn't take her too long of that to start crying, too, and Alfred watched sadly as Ludwig pressed his face into her shoulder and she clung to him tightly. They stood there like that for a long time, and no one moved to interrupt them.

Gilbert and Antonio were quiet, muted, but Gilbert held himself together quite well, and Alfred knew that that was only because Gilbert was very likely already planning ways to stalk them and suddenly become their next door neighbor. Gilbert wouldn't let Ludwig too far out of his grasp, wouldn't let him stray outside of arm's reach.

Gilbert hugged Ludwig for nearly as long as Felicia did, kissing his cheek over and over again until it was red, and then, on the very brink, Gilbert stretched out his hand to Alfred. Alfred took it, nearly wincing at Gilbert's death-grip, and whatever the hell Gilbert muttered to him then Alfred could only assume was a buncha threats.

Alfred lifted his chin, and griped back, "Yeah, yeah, glad to be part of the family, you bastard."

Gilbert clapped his shoulder, and that was good enough.

Time to go.

At last, leaving this place behind, this community that had cast them out

As Alfred pulled out, Gilbert walked down the sidewalk along the car, for as long as he could, jogging a bit towards the end.

It was hard, to let go of the people they loved, even if only a little. They weren't even that far away at all, less than an hour's drive, and yet somehow it felt as if they had crossed the very solar system itself.

The way Ludwig's eyes followed Gilbert until he was no longer in sight.

Driving with Ludwig was just another surreal experience, something he had dreamt of but never really envisioned. Bizarre. Ludwig watched the city fly by, watched it grow smaller and smaller, watched the concrete steadily giving way to grass, and the smile on his face was wondrous.

Trees.

It wasn't that long of a drive at all, but it felt like eternity, as they saw everything together for the first time and excitedly pointed out everything and nothing in sight to each other like kids.

Alfred had been here several times, but seeing it at last with Ludwig beside of him made it feel brand new.

When they were about to round the corner onto the street that held what was now their home, Alfred turned to Ludwig and said, sternly, "Close your eyes! I want it to be a surprise."

Ludwig scoffed, but raised a palm to put it over his eyes with a beleaguered sigh all the same, because Ludwig knew well by now that Alfred was eccentric.

A few more minutes, and then there it was, sitting there so innocently and yet so resoundingly profound. Their _home_. Theirs. Something they were starting and creating together.

Alfred pulled in to the drive, cut the ignition, and Ludwig was squirming.

Ludwig asked, impatiently, "Can I look?"

"Not yet!"

He went to Ludwig's door, took his hand, and dragged him to the end of the drive, where the view was the best. Ludwig was struggling so hard to keep a blank face, but was failing miserably and his smile was constant.

Alfred pushed and prodded Ludwig into the position he wanted, stood behind him, placed his hands on Ludwig's shoulders, and took a deep breath.

It was by no means fancy. Was nothing extraordinary.

But it was theirs.

Two levels, but very small, very compact. A tiny little house, with one bedroom. Quite old, and the paint had started peeling off. A little porch out front, and a larger porch in the back. At the back and on the right, there was a forest, circling around. Tall trees, a decent backyard. The houses were far apart, and there were only four others in sight. Quiet and calm here. Isolated. The city was so close, and yet couldn't have seemed farther away.

When Alfred had felt Ludwig had been appropriately tormented, he leaned in, pressed his lips against Ludwig's ear, and finally said, "Alright! Take a look."

Ludwig inhaled, steadied himself, and opened his eyes.

A short, strangled laugh.

Alfred realized that he wasn't nervous at all, somehow, wasn't afraid of Ludwig's reaction. Knew Ludwig too well, had too much faith in Ludwig's good-nature. Knew that Ludwig wasn't going to judge Alfred's choice, wasn't going to berate him for choosing an old house with peeling paint.

And of course, he was right.

Ludwig placed his hands on his hips, took a look around, smiling away, and said, "All that secrecy! You had me worried we were camping. It's perfect! Is this really ours?"

Ours.

Loved the sound of that, and Alfred pushed Ludwig forward towards the door, happily saying, "Yup! All ours. Needs a little fixing up, but nothing we can't handle."

To say the least; felt as if together they could have taken on anything the world threw at them.

As they crossed inside, Ludwig did lower his voice and utter, in a tease, "Good to know your painting skills will be useful."

Alfred snorted, and it was a strange but satisfying day, giving Ludwig a little tour and then hauling the suitcases out and trying to get settled into a new place. So many things left behind, and Alfred would be making many a good trip into the city to gather up the rest of their belongings, but for tonight the basics were plenty.

Ludwig immediately ran out the back door and into the yard, and Alfred watched him from the window as he stared off into the forest. He stood there for a long time, as if entranced. That was Alfred's favorite part of the day, as Ludwig once more had a forest to walk along. A bit of peace. Comfort.

They put sheets on the bed, dusted off the couch, Ludwig cleaned the windows as Alfred swept, and come nightfall they were exhausted and yet smiling.

Sleeping was very easy that night, tired as they were.

The very next morning, there was a knock on the door, and Alfred hadn't even combed his hair and had barely finished pulling on his shirt when he tumbled down the stairs to open it, messy Ludwig on his heels.

Shock.

Felicia stood there on the other side of the door, and Ludwig actually made a very strange noise that Alfred concluded was Ludwig's very masculine version of a squeal.

Felicia looked them over, and said, at their shocked looks, "What? I told you I'd come by. Ludovico! I don't care if you moved to the _moon_! I'll still come visit you every week."

Ludwig's breathtaking smile.

Alfred looked around dumbly, wondering how in god's name she had even gotten here to begin with, but it didn't matter because she leapt on Ludwig like a spider, legs tangling around Ludwig's waist, and Ludwig carted her off and Alfred was quick to forget everything else to berate the both of them for being so physical. Felicia looked guilty, but Ludwig waved him off, seemingly having already forgotten about the huge scar on his abdomen.

The next day, it was Gilbert banging on the door, Antonio there beside of him.

The day after that, Francis.

After that, Matthew and Felicia, and along with them was Alice. Way back, out in a car that Alfred assumed was Alice's father's, sat Lovino, arms crossed crankily and refusing to budge. When everyone was inside, Alfred watched Ludwig slink out, go up to the car, and stand there with hands on hips until Lovino begrudgingly rolled down the window. Ludwig leaned down, crossed his arms atop the windowsill, and stood out there for a long time. Felicia checked on them from time to time through the kitchen window, and her smile was bright.

That first week was very hectic, with constant visitors and constant working, fixing things up and decorating, putting everything where they wanted it. A bit slower than it should have been, perhaps, with Alfred struggling single-handedly to do most of the work; Ludwig would be doing no heavy lifting for a long, long time. Still, Alfred had tried to work fast, his week of vacation coming quickly to an end and work looming once more come Monday. How odd it would be, to drive into the city to go to work! To drop Ludwig off and then go to the garage. Felt oddly excited about it.

They somehow seemed to finish up Saturday evening, when the very last of the boxes had been set aside.

Exhausting, but so rewarding.

When it was all done, Alfred stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips and puffed out very proudly, observing their work and feeling so satisfied, so vindicated in a way. Felt invincible in that moment, his life going at last as he wanted it to, at his own behest, everything moving in the direction he told it to.

Ludwig stood there, and just stared at him, calmly. Still and pensive.

Pride melted down into tranquility. Happiness.

A long, subdued stare between them, and then Ludwig passed silently by him and went out onto the porch.

Alfred, as always, followed where Ludwig led.

The sun had long since set and night had swept over. The fall air was cool. They had grass and trees now, and the scent of them was remarkable. Had gotten so used to the smells of the city that this odd barely-there musk was fascinating. The leaves were changing colors.

Having a porch was Alfred's favorite part of this house, what with the trees beyond. He liked to come outside and sit down and have something to look at, although to some people it would have been looking at nothing. He had come out the other morning, coffee in hand and feeling calm, and had seen a deer down by the trees.

Simple things like that. Funny how good they felt.

Ludwig sat out here every night, and Alfred always joined, even when Ludwig didn't talk at all and just stared off into the distance.

So they sat together now, chairs side by side as the wind blew, and Alfred took turns between observing the forest and observing Ludwig. Couldn't figure out which one was making him feel so blissful, nor which one was nicer to look at.

"So," Ludwig suddenly whispered, out of nowhere, "What now? Where do we go from here?"

The moon hung on high. Stars that Alfred had never been able to see before visible in the sky. Trees swaying in the wind. The strange but wonderful scent of the outdoors.

Alfred was silent for a moment, hands clasped between his knees and brow low in thought, and he said, simply, "Wherever you want."

Ludwig stared ever at the forest, mesmerized as he was.

A deep, guttural noise of contentment.

"And you'll stay with me?"

Alfred reached out, and clapped his hand down atop Ludwig's.

"Always."

"Wherever I go?"

Alfred snorted, and knew he was being had. All the same, he affirmed, "Anywhere."

"Well then," Ludwig rumbled, after a moment, turning lidded eyes to Alfred and looking him up and down. "Let's go to bed."

"Sounds great."

It was well overdue to break this house in, so to speak. They had been so busy, and too tired to even look at each other.

Ludwig stood up, brushed his fingers on the top of Alfred's head, and walked inside. Bristling and very eager, Alfred stood up, and meant to follow.

The wind blew fiercely, then, and Alfred glanced back.

Why he fell still, he didn't know. Just that feeling that came over him as watched the trees bending in the wind. The soothing sight of the stars. Clouds, rolling in and turning white when they crossed the moon. Alfred hung in the doorframe, and looked over his shoulder to the swaying forest. Tranquility. Everything was said and done, finished, and he felt the finality rising up then, at the foot of this unknown forest.

He had reached journey's end.

The staircase had been conquered. The hall traversed. 'Bout time he finally faced that final door. So long seeking it, and at last it stood still there for him.

Wherever they went from here, whatever they did, however they carried on, they would do so together. Their relationship was entirely symbiotic. Couldn't be one without the other. They had become the poles, and simply opposite ends of a single thread. Always, they would be together.

After all, Ludwig was Alfred's glasses.

He took the doorknob in his hand, and pushed it open.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N : This is NOT the original ending. After Zachem Ya, I just couldn't bring myself to keep going with the original ending, so this underwent another rewrite. Perhaps one day, but unlikely, I may polish up the OG ending and post it as a bonus chapter, so if you ever get another update from this, that is what it would be, but again, unlikely.
> 
> Thanks for reading guys! See ya in some other story or on tumblr.


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